Lord of the Uruloki
by chi-chi-chimera
Summary: Sequel to Corruption of the Ring. Dark Lord Bilbo AU, featuring dragons and Nazgul
1. Chapter 1

The thick foul smoke of the mountain choked him with its stink. The plains outside had reeked with it but here, at the heart of Orodruin, the fumes crept down his throat like something alive. Every breath was a struggle. The heat was like nothing he had ever felt. It made him sweat like a Man, pant like a Man. Strands of his hair were sticking to his skin. The touch of evil seemed to fill the hall around him, and even Vilya on his finger was not eager to try its power against it.

They had come to the overlook of Sammath Naur. Far below, the molten stone moved and steamed with active malice. Great magic had been worked here in this elemental forge, and the echoes could still be felt now; likely would still be able to be felt for a thousand years to come. He turned to the mortal King who shadowed his footsteps.

"Come!" He cried. "Cast it into the fire!"

Isildur was holding the plain-banded ring between fore-finger and thumb, turning it back and forth to catch the light. Even now, knowing what it was and all it meant, all it could do, the malice it held was a quiet thing, hiding in the gold like a serpent in the grass. He did not like to have it so close. But they had come so far and done more than he'd had any hope for, and now only one small task yet remained to cast down Sauron and all his works and end the font of all evil in Middle-Earth.

"Destroy it!" he shouted, when the Man hesitated. Was it not simple enough? Had he not seen the evils that Ring brought?

The Man smiled. It was, he realised with growing horror, an evil look. "No," Isildur-King muttered, and before he could act, move to check him, he had turned and was striding away, back towards the foul sky and less foul air.

Elrond returned to awareness of the world staring up at the dome of night, illuminated by the tender light of the stars. He let out a slow breath, banishing the dream from his thoughts. There was no need to question why that memory was preying on his mind; it had been a moment in which many horrors could have been prevented, not least those most recent losses beneath the shadow of the Lonely Mountain. He rose from the soft grass and surveyed their camp. They had stopped merely to rest the horses, taking their own brief respite in shifts. If this was a retreat, at least it was an orderly one, and they were not pursued.

As refreshed as any elf could hope to be under the circumstances, he had certain duties to attend to. Awakening the energies of Vilya with a whispered word, Elrond made his way through the camp to the tents they had swiftly raised to house the wounded overnight. Those who could not be fitted upon the wagons had needed to be carried, but that was a task no elf would shirk. Now those stretchers lay upon the ground, and those they bore lay in the stupors of healing, or shivering from the effort of suppressing their pain. The army's stocks of healing herbs had been used up days ago.

The last time Elrond had seen wounds like this, he reflected, had been three thousand years ago upon the blasted plains of Mordor. Dragon fire held a spark of the Maiars' power; it clung to flesh and was not easily extinguished. Many had died from it, their armour fusing to their skin and their lungs burning to char when they could inhale naught but flame. Worse though were those who survived. Though nerves would be sundered in the immediate aftermath, and elven nature meant no need to fear infection of the open skin, the process of healing could not easily be predicted. For some those nerves grew back too quickly, when all was still raw. He had known some to be driven from their minds in their agony until at last the burden became enough to drive their spirits to the Halls of Mandos. Where even the worst burns of natural fire might be healed in a mere decade or so, dragon burns might take centuries, and would result in scars that elves were never meant to bear.

King Thranduil had scarred thus. Elrond had tended to him in the aftermath, as he had tended to so many others. He remembered the hints of pale bone that flashed white from beneath the black char of his face, the shrivelled, crisped muscle of his neck and shoulder, the bubbled, melted fat and skin of his arm and chest. It had healed, even that burned horror which would have spelt the death of Man or Dwarf, but even a thousand years later, when Thranduil had still been willing to let Elrond see beneath the glamour he'd woven, it had left him blind in one eye and half his face a monstrosity of twisted tissue.

If caught from the wrong angle like that, Thranduil had looked like an orc, although of course Elrond would never be cruel enough to tell him so.

And now there were nearly a hundred like him, to a greater or lesser degree. Nearly a hundred elves who would never return to the perfect forms Eru had made them. Evil had touched them and would mark them forever, and not all of them would be as skilled with glamours as King Thranduil had been. Some might make the choice to go early to the Halls, and he could not truly blame them.

He moved amongst them now, letting loose the healing energies of Vilya to ease pain, to help the flow of blood, to spur on healing. It was tiring work spiritually, if not physically, but he would never do less than put his all into it.

"My lord Elrond?"

He turned to see a somewhat familiar face – a red-haired, female Silvan elf. She had been one of Prince – no, King now – Legolas Thranduillion's advisors at the battle. Tauriel.

"Yes?" He said, his hands not yet leaving the back of his current charge, who had ducked the dragon's fire, but not low enough.

"It's the King, my lord," she said. "There's something not right."

Elrond did not know much of her, but he had seen enough of her character to know she would not disturb him for something that was not a serious matter. He rose, tucking Vilya's magic away once more, and followed her out of the tent.

King Legolas was resting not far away, under a sparse and wiry pine, watched over by a small contingent of the Lasgalen guard. At first nothing appeared to be amiss, but on approach it soon became apparent that his rest was not the normal elven ease, but marred by something feverish, with glassy eyes and beading sweat. He held his healing stump tucked close into his chest, cradling it with his remaining hand. Elrond frowned, bending to lay a hand upon the young elf's forehead, his senses questing out to find the source of his pain.

"His arm," he said softly, drawing his hand back with a hiss. Yes, something was most certainly wrong here. A darkness lay upon Legolas Thranduillion that should not be. A darkness emanating from his wound, which had before this been well on its way to healing over. He lifted the stump carefully, easing it away from Legolas' body and noting the tenseness in his muscles. Unwrapping the bandages that lay upon the wound, both he and Tauriel let out startled breaths of shock.

Dark lines of infection swept up the elven-king's forearm, the healing skin now reddened and swollen. It was not hot to the touch, as the malady of a Man, but deathly cold instead. This was nothing natural, even had there existed a rot that would take its hold in elven flesh.

"This is an infection of the spirit," Elrond said, feeling the stirrings of fear in his heart. "The work of dark magic."

"What can be done?" Tauriel asked. Her hands were balled into fists, her knuckles white.

"His own strength and will must battle this," Elrond replied grimly. "But I will give him what aid I can. He is strong, and determined. His chances are better than most."

"How could this happen!"

"The sword the Halfling bears... it was once forged in Gondolin, many thousands of years ago. Now it has known the taint of the One Ring, and no doubt the dark thing that creature became gave it some fell name. I can only suppose it had not thus been named before – now its nature has been perverted to some dark end. It is lucky we of the Council were able to keep him from the greater battle, else I fear we should be seeing many more wounds like this."

This new evil only made him more certain that they should not have left the field but continued to press on. Even with what little, unprepared strength they had been able to bring to bear there was nothing to be gained by leaving black things to fester. He had been the one crossing blades with that quick, lithe little being and he had felt it tiring. Surely if they had persevered... even just to kill it, and leave the dragon for later... But he had been overruled in the vote by the Istari, and he was certainly willing to admit that they were wise in ways that even he did not fully appreciate at all times. Particularly not the strange, brown-robed one.

"I will keep a close watch on him," he said, re-wrapping Legolas' wound and rising. "Have hope, Tauriel. There is always hope, as long as Good remains in Middle-Earth."

As he left for the others who needed his skills though, Elrond reflected that he was no longer certain that that was true.

* * *

"I warned you Gandalf that no good would come of associating with these _Halflings_ ," Saruman told him. Gandalf nodded, but in truth he was barely listening. He was well aware of his own mistakes. His own blindness. Overconfidence. He had been so focused on the greater picture of the workings of Middle-Earth that he had failed to pay attention to the evidence of his own senses. He had known that _something_ was wrong, some strange quirk of behaviour that Bilbo had picked up in his journey through the goblin tunnels, he had even known that there had been a ring, but he had never suspected...

He had been a fool! Why had he not at least asked the merest question? Asked to see the thing? If he had only _thought_...! But then, what if he _had_ asked, and then picked it up... One of the Istari under the sway of the Ring would be an evil even greater than that which now sat in the heart of Erebor.

 _You cannot dwell on the past_. The voice of the Lady Galadriel was, as ever, a balm. She stood, graceful and beautiful and unchanging, seemingly untouched by the horrors of these past days. _There is no-one here who has not erred. The future is clouded, and always in motion. This could not have been foreseen._

 _By my actions a good and gentle soul has been corrupted by evil,_ Gandalf replied. _And now the kindest thing I can do for him is to kill him._

"At least now we know the location of the Master Ring," Saruman was saying. "Once this Halfling creature has been slain, we will be able to put its power to proper use!"

"No!" Lord Elrond said, joining their conversation for the first time that evening. "If we have learned nothing else from this, at least we have learned that the Ring must _not_ be used! It must be destroyed, as it should have been destroyed three thousand years ago!"

"The evidence of a mortal's fall is hardly a warning for us," Saruman replied, with a scorn that Gandalf felt was unwarranted. "Our will is far stronger. Just think of the potential if Sauron's powers could be used for the betterment of Good!"

"The Halfling spoke similarly," Galadriel said. "I imagine he began with the best of intentions. He may have fallen to its evil more swiftly but make no mistake; even would it take centuries so would we fall too. Do not forget who was once Sauron's master. There is only one of us who has not seen _his_ power to turn the purest will to the foulest end, for he was thrown down before Lord Elrond's birth, but his shadow remains in the world. The Ring must be destroyed."

"All very well and good," Radagast put in. Gandalf had never seen him appear more harried. Radagast was at heart a gentle soul, not meant for war, and it had tried him sorely to lend his power to theirs, first at Dol Guldur, and then at Erebor. At least this retreat would offer him some respite. "We're getting rather ahead aren't we? We lost! The Ring won! What do we do now?"

"We gather our strength!" Saruman replied. Gandalf felt suddenly mistrustful of his eagerness. There had been something rather unusual about his contributions when they vied against the strength of the One, although he had as yet not the slightest clue what that might be. It had been Ages of Arda since last they had all joined their power together. Oft had they spoken, but the Istari were not _meant_ to use their strength without great cause. Perhaps they were simply unfamiliar with one another. Perhaps practise would make them better, more able to defeat this threat.

If only he had not left the Company of Erebor at the eaves of Mirkwood! Sauron had not been so strong then that together they could not drive him out, and a little longer would not have helped him. If he had remained, he might have seen the change in Bilbo and divined its meaning. He could have mediated whatever meeting they had with the elves of Eryn Lasgalen and perhaps... perhaps much bloodshed could have been averted. All because he had not _looked_.

"Gandalf!" Saruman snapped.

"Hmmm?" he mumbled, rousing himself from his dour thoughts.

"Perhaps it is time for the Heir of Isildur to go South," Saruman said. "And reunite the Kingdoms of Men. Their strength may leave something to be desired, but we will need every advantage possible to throw down this evil."

"The Heir of Isildur is ten years old!" Elrond replied. "A fine King he would make!"

"Then he will be of age in a mere ten years," Saruman said. "Are you not fostering him, Lord Elrond? Ten years in which to groom him for the role he must play. It is a heavy burden to place on one so young, yes, but we will all have burdens to bear in the coming years. Ten years to muster our strength. Ten years to build our forces."

"I fear it will not be so easy," Gandalf forced himself to say. If only his grievous error _could_ be corrected that swiftly! "The Stewards of Gondor have ruled for nine hundred years, and will not be eager to relinquish the Kingdom to a Northern Ranger."

"Then we must _persuade_ them to see reason," Saruman said impatiently. "Perhaps it _will_ take more than a mere ten years, but we must be ready to seize any opportunity we are given. You must travel to Gondor and begin to lay the seeds for this child's ascension. I will work on the Horse-lords."

"I shall visit Lord Círdan in Lindon," Lady Galadriel said. "Enough of our people may yet remain in Middle-Earth that together we can face this last threat and see it ended. So too must Lothlorien begin to consider the art of war for the first time in three thousand years."

Their gazes turned gradually to Radagast. "I'm afraid I really don't know what kind of assistance I can be?" he said.

There was a short space of considered silence. Then a thought occurred. "You know Beorn at least," Gandalf said, trying to sound encouraging. "He commands his own small army in his bears. And Gwaihir and his people roost in the mountains that face the Carrock. They may be proud folk with their own concerns, but they will not refuse all aid where it is dearly needed."

"The Eagles!" Radagast exclaimed, sounding far happier. "Yes, that sounds splendid! I will speak to the Eagles."

"Then it is decided," Saruman said. "We shall each of us depart upon our separate tasks, and make our preparations for the war that will come."

"I at least must remain for a time," Lord Elrond said. "King Legolas requires my knowledge of the healing arts."

"Do what you must to aid him and the others who were wounded," Lady Galadriel told him. "Enough pain and death has been visited upon our people; it will ease my heart to know you are here with them."

With that the meeting of the White Council was concluded. Gandalf remained in the tent that had been set aside for them for a while longer, considering the scope of what had now been laid before them. There would be war, yes, war such as there had not been since the days of the Last Alliance at the ending of the Second Age, a time when the Istari had not even yet been sent to Middle-Earth. Theirs was to have been a role of watching, of guiding. Not outright battle. Not pitting fearful strength against fearful strength.

Yet there was no-one to blame for this calamity but himself.

* * *

[Nardur – small, Koth – claw, Maukûrz – scrappy, Murûk – bear, Horm – serious]

A thing of magic had returned to the Holy Crags. Horm Gods'-Honoured had seen it in a dream, three nights before, and announced it to the clan at the morning meal after she had talked to Murûk-Chief and gained his agreement. In the dream, she told them, she had seen a great flame in the east standing on a plain at the foot of a mountain, and the flame had scoured the earth and the sky, sending shadows and stars scurrying away. Then a circle of swords rose up from the ground, nine in number, and the flame grasped one and pulled it forth before casting it from him so that it crossed the arc of the heavens like a darting bird, falling at last amongst the rocks of the Holy Crags. Horm said it was a sign that a great spirit had awoken, perhaps even the Great Eye returned at last, and that they had sent a servant into the holy places for the clans to seek their will.

It was not spoken, but Maukûrz could feel the excitement from everyone for the rest of the day as they went about their usual tasks. It had been many years since they had felt the touch of the gods upon the land, many years since the King of the Honoured Dead had ruled the north-lands and united them under the name of Angmar. The tarks had crushed their army and driven the King away and there had been no god to stop them. There was no strongest leader, and the clans fought amongst themselves. The Chiefs always fought, it was what burned in their blood, but even the greatest uruk was still an uruk, not a god or a great spirit, and so the people were divided.

But _this_ meant that perhaps the gods had begun to lay their hands upon the world again. That they would come and walk amongst their people, receive their worship, sit the thrones that were their due. Maukûrz thought about this, out on the hunt in the hills. Perhaps blessed by the news, his luck was good and the stones from his sling found the skulls of a fair half dozen rabbits despite the lateness of the season. Snow was on the ground, heaped in the shadows of stones where sun could not get it, not that the Wizard's-Eye was strong here where it crept close down to the horizon, scarce seen in winter even if in summer welcome darkness fled. The cold wan light meant the people could hunt in the day when the animals moved, rather than dig in burrows at night like ferrets. Maukûrz pitied his southern cousins in that much.

He cleaned his kills quick, slitting their warm little bellies with his stone knife, eating the still-steaming innards as his hunter's due. Oft-reused string soon bound tiny rabbit feet together, and with the carcasses slung over his shoulder Maukûrz made his way back to the clan's camp, thinking pleasantly of the slowly steaming stew the meat would make.

"Official meeting tonight," Naudur told him when he gave her the rabbits. She was pretty even if she was small as she was named, with a wide snaggle-toothed grin and blunted nose, twice-broken over the years. She was wiry and strong and she had many scars even though she was not one of the warriors – but Maukûrz knew he'd never have a chance with any of the warriors, and he just might with Naudur. "Gonna' be a lottery, to see who they send up to the Holy Crags."

More good news! "Maybe my luck'll hold," he said, nudging her shoulder. She swiped at him, but in a friendly way, and her claws didn't score him deep.

"Don't see you as no holy messenger," she said, laughing.

"Holy as anyone else!" he told her. "Hey, maybe if I get lucky there, I'll get lucky somewhere else as well Naudur?"

"Maybe you will, but you won't!"

He grinned at her, and left her to her work. Well that was something! Not a no anyway, even if it had been a joke. It wouldn't be long now until the gathering, he thought, glancing up at the sky. Dusk was starting to turn to true dark, and the camp with its ramshackle huts was lit now only by the light of the cooking fires. Maukûrz had one more thing to do before then.

The shrine was in the shallow cave at the rear of the camp where the sun could not pollute it. There was the sign of the Great Eye, forged in metal and oft-wetted with sacrificial blood, and before it the circle of nine stones, the sacred number, each carved with one of the symbols of the Honoured Dead. To either side were the shrines of the other gods of fire and shadow; to the left the Horned Walkers, to the right the Living Stone. Kneeling, Maukûrz reached for the shallow bowl of red clay, marking the Eye upon his bare chest, and then prostrated himself to pray for luck.

When the blare of the horn called the clan together, Maukûrz was ready. He crouched with the other hunters a short distance away from the centre of the wide circle of the meeting place, opposite the warriors who, in his opinion, had become lazy and prideful with only other orcs to fight. Tarks, with their godless ways and birch-bark pale skin, were far more frightening than any of the other clans. Luckily there were none this far north – even luckier, there had never been elves here, and elves were the most terrifying of all.

In the circle's centre Horm stood with the lynx-skin bag of stones, with Murûk there ready to pick out one of the carved rocks that would narrow down the lottery to one of the groups watching the ceremony. Koth War-Caller started up the beat on his drum to call the attention of the gods down upon the draw, twirling the carved wooden tipper between his fingers. The pounding seemed to Maukûrz to match that of his heart – it seemed a good sign. Murûk-Chief reached into the bag.

"Hunters," the Chief called out, and Maukûrz drew in an excited breath. This was one step closer to being chosen.

There were too many amongst his work-kin for the drawing of straws, so instead Horm Gods'-Honoured brought forth the second bag of stones, this of bear-hide. Amongst the many pale river rocks, there was one of a lucky black, and the orc who picked it would be their chosen messenger. She brought the bag over to them, and Maukûrz kicked and shoved his way into the rough line that was being formed. The beat of the drum continued. He could feel it pulsing under his skin, and he could almost think the eyes of the gods were on him even now.

When he reached into the mouth of the bag, he met Horm's golden eyes and shivered. His claws rasped against the stones, and sweating, he grabbed one and drew it out. It was the black stone.

"Maukûrz will go to the Holy Crags," Horm cried out, and a shout of satisfaction went up from the clan. Maukûrz could barely believe it himself, but slowly a wide grin spread across his face. He had been blessed, and soon he would be the one to deliver the gods' will to his people.

There was preparation to be done before his pilgrimage. Maukûrz spent the night awake and fasting in the shrine, and before he left Horm anointed him with the holy oil that seeped from the sands around the Forodwaith flats. The thick black tar was mixed with white chalk so that it stood out against dark orcish skin, painting holy symbols on his chest and down his arms, with the Eye's diamond on his brow. When it was done he was ready to leave the village by the high trail that led to the Holy Crags far above.

As he worked his way higher the air became sharper with the cold, and the falls of snow became a carpet laid roughly over the ground. His breath steamed in front of him, and he was glad for his rabbit-fur boots keeping his feet from leaching their warmth. After a time he had made his way up to the shoulder of the sacred mountain, and soon the great cliff was stretching over him, the stairs winding up its sheer surface. This was but the first part of the tests he knew were to come. Nervously he pulled at the lacings of his boots, setting them aside upon the rocks, and stretching his toes. He would need his claws for the climb.

The stair was made up of flat slabs hammered into the stone, with wide gaps between them that he had to jump. It was easier to crouch and use hands and feet both, latching on to the cracks and imperfections in the rock. It was a slow and twisting path. The Wizard's-Eye had reached the peak of its arc by the time he made it to the Door.

The Iron Gate had long ago been pried apart and splayed out against the cliff. It had been the tarks who put it there, no work of orcish hands. As though the Honoured Dead could be penned in by something so meaningless! Still, it was a sign of disrespect, and so they had broken it. He gripped the rusted lattice tight as he looked down the Steep Path into the holy place, the wind whistling past him. Here was the second test. He set his claws to the stone, and slid as slowly as he could, digging in with all his strength so that the deeps did not take him when he came out to the High Hall.

It was cold here. Colder than a cave should be. But this was a place of the Nine Honoured Dead, not any ordinary cave, and Maukûrz could feel the power in the very walls. Carefully he wound his way further inside, walking the Path of the Nine Gates. There were whispers on the air. Something calling him.

"I am here Great One," he said quietly into the utter stillness. "I have come to be commanded."

"Then come," said the whisper in his ear. "Come and be seen. Come and hear."

The spells that were carved upon the Gate of the King were giving off a faint light in the darkness. It was golden, the golden of fire, fire and shadow. Breathless, Maukûrz approached. His claws clicked on the stone. The Gate was black and empty, but deep within, something moved. Carefully he edged inside.

"Do you know me orc?" the voice asked. There was a sword driven into the stone. Behind it a shape, blacker than black.

"King Angmar," Maukûrz said, kneeling. "Dread Lord, you are woken!"

"Woken, and left, and returned," the King of the Dead said, his voice as dry as dust. "Come closer, orc of the North. Let me tell you what must be done."

Maukûrz did as he was told, keeping his head bowed.

"The time of my Kingdom is come again," the great spirit said. "It shall be risen to the glories of old, the forts rebuilt, the army mustered and retrained, your clans come together. The word of this must go out and be spread, from Fornost to Forochel, from Hithaeglir to the River Lhûn."

"It shall be as you command, my King."

"Yes, it will. Now put your hands upon the blade so that I may give you my blessing, envoy."

Reaching out with trembling hands, Maukûrz closed his fingers around the sword. The edge was far sharper than he had expected, and it bit his palms, sending twin trickles of black blood down the dark metal. Strange things seemed to be happening to his vision. The blade swam in and out, as though he had drunk too deeply of strong spirits. Dimly, he heard laugher. Something was moving over his skin, like smoke. Gradually, a presence that was not his own began to take up space inside his head.

"Much better," said the King of the Dead.

* * *

Despite their common reputation as a violent people, Dwarves had a great respect for knowledge. Khamûl first learned of this in the Black Mountains west of the Sea of Rhûn, when he visited King Sankibil in Zundûsh-zâram and was treated to a tour of his kingdom beneath the stone, including the largest library he had then seen outside of Barad-dûr. Sankibil and his kin had been proof that some dwarves were wise enough not to be led astray by the lies of Eru's people, but he had not expected to meet any others like them so far from the lands beneath the Shadow. Now there were twelve more, and another kingdom that might be counted neutral, and the promise of more allies to come.

This new Master had made it so. A curious creature, Khamûl thought as he stalked the passages of Erebor. There should not be such strength in one so small and gentle, one who felt of earth more than fire. But perhaps in the union of those two elements was something great, something that could make the ground quake and shudder and run like water. As it was said it had in the youngest days of the earth, when Melkor walked.

The halls beneath the mountain were vast, and the many bridges and walkways bore no markings to guide the way of the stranger. Yet Khamûl had always had a good memory for cities and spaces, and did not mind the wandering. The cool and steady light falling on green stone reminded him of their old home in Minas Morgul, even though the style carved into the stone was that of Dwarves, not the watered memory of Númenór. Númenór meant less to him than it did to some of the others – he had never seen it.

In time, he found what he was searching for. Cirth runes were inscribed upon the great brass doors in lines of silver; Katûb-zahar, House of Knowledge. It was far from the dragon's domain, untouched by his fire. Even after so many years, the doors opened easily at a touch. Inside the shelves towered high, carved into the pillars, into the walls, into the stairs. Reading lecterns and tables were cunningly placed each within its own small locus of silence and lamp-light.

If the people of Thorin, Thráin and Thrór were anything like those he once knew, they would have arranged their library accordingly. Pacing between the stacks, thick with dust and that particular sorcerous tang of aging vellum and paper, retrieving works at random to check them against what he expected, he saw that his memory was correct. This was good; it would save him time. He had come here with specific purpose; he needed a map, and an accurate one.

Borders might from time to time be redrawn, but the lay of the land was not swift to change. Inked into fine vellum and covering the whole of the skin, he found the best of the lot, and laid upon it a quiet spell of preservation before taking it up, rolled carefully and tied fast. With a thought he sent out the call to the rest of his kin. It would be best if all were present when he spoke to their new Lord.

The Master was in his consort's rooms, but alone, although it mattered little. The dwarf was loyal – the weakness of his love made him so, and the ties of the Ring of Durin. Even now the aegis of the Master's power was beginning to settle into this place, gently pushing aside the mark of the dragon which had lain for so long upon the land. It was a green power that spoke of growing things. The volcanic soil of the mountain would soon be sprouting with life, with grass and trees, and give the possibility of fruitful harvest to both Men and Dwarves. And not only of food but of children too, when the time came for them to think of such things. A bounty that never would have been if not for the Halfling Lord, and another reason for the mortals to give him their loyalty.

The seven of his kin who remained in Erebor met him outside the chambers, where the Master welcomed them inside, alerted to their passage by the One. Khamûl nodded to him respectfully and went to the great circular stone table in the entrance hall of the royal apartments, bending to spread out his find upon it. Like the rest of the kingdom beneath the mountain, it was sized for those of lesser stature.

"Master, I would talk to you of conquest," Khamûl said.

The little Lord – though greater now in his seeming from the magics that wrapped around him – approached and studied the map. "This shows far more than any of our maps in the Shire," he said, brushing careful fingers across the vellum. "I know the lands here, although they've seemed to miss _us_ out." He pointed to Eriador west of the Misty Mountains, marked here as Lindon, Arnor the Shattered, and Angmar the Fallen, and of course the strongholds beneath Ered Luin. There was no mention made of the homeland of hobbits. Khamûl wondered if the same omission was on most maps – it would be curious, and a boon to its strange people, to be a lost and uncharted area.

"We are lucky in our placement," Khamûl explained, illustrating his point with gentle taps. "The mountain is a fortress, and the only nearby threat is Mirkwood, now defeated. They will withdraw and attempt to rebuild, so we might expect them to rise again against us in the years to come. But the strength of Elves is lost and departed. They pass into the West, and no longer enact their will upon the lands. If this White Council wishes to oppose you, and it is clear they will, it is to Men they must turn.

"Dale and Laketown have bowed to us already. When this map was made the Kings of Dale ruled south to the River Running, north upon a border that marks a line between us and the Iron Hills, west to Mirkwood, and east to the border of Rhûn at the River Rhûr. The Master of the Lake does not command what became of the lords of all these fiefs now; he simply trades, and sits with them in council until decisions are reached with a vote from all."

"It seems a sensible enough way of doing things," their Master said, interrupting him. "The Shire Thain does something similar."

Khamûl hesitated. "It may stand well enough in times of peace," he replied diplomatically. "But it is not efficient in times of war. It slows the muster, and the lesser landowners are not so inclined to provide their numbers."

"I don't have any wish to change it, or at least not until we must. The other dragons haven't even hatched yet."

"As you will it," Khamûl said. "King Dáin Ironfoot has promised us alliance, and the orc-clans of the Grey Mountains and Gundabad will answer to your call. It is a good start. But the great kingdoms of Middle-Earth lie far away; Gondor, Rohan, Rhûn, Nurn-in-Mordor, Haradwaith. Lord Mairon left after the battle, and we all have little doubt as to where he went; back to Barad-dûr. He has no more use for the secrecy that kept him in Dol Guldur. He will call upon the orc-lords of Nurn, of the sworn Kings of the Haradrim and of Rhûn. Diminished as he is though, they may be reluctant to answer the call, and this gives us time. We must be strong enough to face him, and whatever armies the White Council brings to bear, and that means we must win some of these kingdoms to our own side by means other than the force of arms we do not yet have."

"Then all the better for it," the Master replied. "I'd rather do this without shedding blood, if it's possible. Now, I suppose you wouldn't have come to me if you didn't have a plan, so I would like to hear it."

"We have done this before, or something much like it," Khamûl said. There had been some discussion of this amongst them, although the Nazgûl had been brought together by the Nine for so long, working as one, at times almost thinking as one, that they were each intimately familiar with the strengths and weaknesses of the others. Often there was little need to talk, for they knew what was in the minds of each, and thus they moved and acted together. "It is a pity that Angmar is no longer with us, for he built his own kingdom in the north under his name, and were he not bound to his grave I am sure he would build it again."

"He has always been set in his ways," Akhôrahil muttered.

"As old as we are, that is no excuse for being unable to adapt," Adûnaphel said.

"You were his lieutenant for a long time," the Master told Khamûl. "I understand that you want to advocate for him, but he has proven himself treacherous. Only once he is willing to serve, can I afford to bring him back to you."

"We are... unbalanced without him," Khamûl said. It was a strange sensation now, to be merely Eight. They had been apart before, but not quite like this, and it was as if one thread in the symphony between their rings had become discordant.

"Yes," said Ji Indûr, whom amongst them was most knowledgeable in lore. "And if you have need to kill him Master, I beg you, find another to take up his Ring. Otherwise there is great danger to us. The song of the Nine will fall apart and we shall come to true death."

"I don't mean to kill him," the Master replied. "At least not unless he does something to deserve it, which he is in no position to do. Now, you were speaking of your plan?"

"We must each of us go to these far realms and spread word of your power and strength," Khamûl said, gesturing to the map. "We must make men fear you, and ply them with the promise of your mercy if they but bow the knee. In Rhûn they still remember me, as they do Dwar and Ji Indûr. One of us will go to them. If in Rohan they have legends of Ûvatha I do not know, who was once a chief amongst them when they still roamed the steppe that became the Brown Lands, but of us he would be best placed to speak to them.

"In Near Harad the Black Númenórians still rule; Akhôrahil will persuade them of your supremacy to the Dark Tower's sway. Ren will go farther south than that, to the same ends. Adûnaphel has elected to go to Gondor, although we cannot hope that _we_ shall persuade them; they remember us ill. Still, they will spread about what she tells them, even in hushed whispers out of fear, and in fear gossip travels all the faster. Hoarmûrath shall go the length of the Misty Mountains and tell of you to the orc-clans there, although some may require further shows of strength before they accept your rule."

The Master considered this, and from the slight alteration in the frequency of his bond with the One, Khamûl could tell he was seeking the advice of the Ring. Although Khamûl himself was the better known of the Nazgûl in the east, he thought it would be wiser for him to remain here, to see the Master's work done. Communication with the others would in this case be of no difficulty, for they might speak to each other through the linkages of their Nine Rings, not fettered by the restrictions that had been placed upon Angmar.

"Then let it be done," the Master said finally.

"We shall get fast horses from Laketown, and those who are going will leave as soon as is possible," Khamûl replied. There was no need or cause for delay; the quicker this was started, the better their chances. They all knew how to return from a position of weakness; it had been done by them before. Indeed, the outlook was better here than it had been in millennia.

* * *

Kili's arrow-wound was healing far too slowly for his liking. Having only one arm available meant he wasn't capable of doing _anything_ in Erebor, not helping with repairs to stonework, or mapping out the mines, or seeing to the armories, or riding with the wagons to Laketown to unload old _serej_ steel in return for food. Instead he simply had to wander around, and as breathtaking as simply being here in the Kingdom under the Mountain was after so long hearing all the stories about the glory days of his Uncle's birthright, wandering was quickly becoming boring. Even Fili, with his head-wound, had still been allowed to help out.

And speaking of Fili, normally he would have had his brother to keep him company, but as short-handed as they were, he couldn't be spared just so that he and Kili could make their own amusement. Watching Fili work and teasing him had also quickly lost its lustre, only reminding him of how useless and stifled he was feeling. Óin had told him he would have to keep the sling on until the wound had closed up, and then there would be exercises to do to make sure the muscles regained their flexibility and strength, and it would be weeks, _weeks_ , before he was strong enough to lift rocks, or swing a hammer, or climb scaffolding to check the mortar of arches and vaults. They might at least have given him a pen and found some geometrical or architectural calculations for him to check!

Really, Kili didn't see how anybody could find cause to blame him if he had to find his excitement in places where strictly speaking, he really shouldn't have been. It was his boredom that saw him sneaking, one afternoon, along the walkway that led to the ironworks where, in smouldering, bubbling crucibles, nine dragon eggs sat waiting to hatch. Dragons! Was there anything more exciting? When he had first seen Smaug, that day their Company had entered the mountain, his heart had thrilled with fear and wonder at the massive size of the wyrm, his glowing golden scales, his huge wings, the fires that burned in his belly. And then at the battle of the Five Armies – Smaug and that little dragonet that had died being one of those armies all by themselves – he had been struck by that same terrified awe all over again. But Smaug was meant to be sleeping now, so surely, Kili told himself, it couldn't hurt to sneak in just for a moment and see the eggs.

The heat was sweltering in the great hall of the foundry, even for a dwarf. Kili felt unfamiliar sweat starting to trickle down his back and chest underneath his clothes, and the very air itself seemed suffocatingly warm and humid. There were the massive crucibles though, with the water-wheel powered bellows firing the flames blue, and nine immense globes of stone just visible over their lips. Although... he frowned. One of those globes looked as though it had been cracked.

As Kili edged slowly forwards, a sudden weight hit him from behind and sent him sprawling to the hard stone, crushing his ribs and pressing his wounded shoulder into the ground, making him cry out in pain. A furious roar split the air above him.

" _Aha!_ Thief or dwarvish _spy_ , which are you? Speak intruder or die!"

Kili wheezed, all the breath knocked out of him and his head spinning. He thought he saw what might have been the flash of black talons out of the corner of his eye, and there was a definite prickling of a greater heat at the back of his neck. He struggled to get in enough air past the mass crushing him to make an attempt at an answer. Terror made his muscles weak as water.

As suddenly as it came, the weight was rapidly lifted off him. Kili rolled awkwardly round onto his front in time to see a writhing black dragonet the size of a large carthorse being lifted into the air by Smaug's great claws, dangling from a grip around its long serpentine body. It was hissing and protesting loudly, twisting to lash the trailing edges of its wings down at where Kili lay.

"Enough of that," Smaug growled. "Did I not tell you that the dwarves are not to be harmed?"

"It is still wandering where it doesn't belong!" the black dragon complained. "I wasn't going to kill it if it could explain itself!"

"Yes," Smaug said, turning his huge head to look at Kili rather closer than he was comfortable with. This wasn't looking half as fine an idea as it had a few hours ago. "Why _are_ you here, dwarf?"

"I just wanted to see," Kili replied, feeling gingerly at his ribs to see if any of them were broken. He was starting to get his breath back, and it didn't hurt too much, so he didn't think so. Still, he could already tell he was going to be covered in bruises from his impact with the floor, and from the wet trickle at his shoulder he suspected he had torn his stitches. Óin was _not_ going to be pleased. "I'm sorry! I'll... I'll just go..."

Smaug's head, with its complement of dozens and dozens of very large teeth, was disturbingly near now. He seemed to be studying him intently. "You are young for a dwarf, are you not?" he said.

"I'm seventy-seven this year," Kili replied, thinking that perhaps he ought to be offended. It wasn't that young. Old enough to come on the quest, at least!

Smaug smiled. It was terrifying. Gently, he placed the black dragon down, where it wriggled quickly out of his grasp, the horns around its head and down its neck standing straight up like an affronted cat. "Your Hobbit is a great one for the virtues of friendship," he said, which Kili thought did not seem to have much to do with anything. "If the Uruloki are to abide here in the mountain with Durin's Folk, perhaps we should start with the young." He nudged the black dragonet towards Kili with his knuckles. Kili shrank back, alarmed. This sounded an even worse idea than his plan of sneaking in here in the first place.

"Ancalagon," Smaug said, "this is...?"

"Kili," Kili said, in a small voice.

"Ah yes. The sister's-son of the King. A Princeling, indeed."

Ancalagon looked him over. His eyes were gold, with narrow slit-pupils. Standing as he was, his head was twice the height of Kili's own. "I apologise for my... impetuousness," he said, hesitantly. "We didn't look upon each other kindly, yours and mine, the last time I was in Arda."

"That's... alright," Kili replied nervously. They regarded each other in awkward silence for a while. "Have you been... outside of the foundry yet?" he asked.

Ancalagon shook his head. "Oh, go," Smaug said, with a wave of his hand. "Do _try_ to be sensible. And do not leave the mountain."

Feeling rather stunned by this unexpected turn of affairs, Kili led the way into the high halls of Erebor. This was _not_ how he had imagined his visit might go.

* * *

The mines of Erebor had been evacuated at great speed. Picks, hammers, trolleys, stools and lanterns had each been abandoned, littering the rough surface of the floors. There was less damp in this mountain than in most, an effect of the heat and fire that still lurked miles and miles below them, dry enough that the metal had not rusted, nor the hardened and treated wood decayed. There were no spiders to spin their webs down here in the deeps with nothing to feed them. Thus the corridors and halls looked as though they had been left only days or perhaps weeks before, as though those who worked them might return at any time.

It had taken a very long time.

Glóin was not an expert in mine-workings, or at least not any more so than any dwarf. He could, of course, admire the mathematical precision of the struts and braces that had been left to support the stone, the calculations taken for direction and depth and dimensions to maximise yield and minimise the work of splitting unneeded stone. But his expertise was rather in valuation and merchandise, in the movement of gold, in lending and borrowing; _kidhuzashf,_ or as he had seen some traders translate it in the Common Tongue, economics.

That much was his excuse for venturing down here. He knew the value of gold and silver and gemstones in markets across Eriador, had word – albeit dated – of their prices in lands further afield. His knowledge was, true enough, six months now out of date, but these were not values that changed often or greatly. New mines rarely opened. This though – the return of the Khazad to Erebor – that would have an effect, sure enough! Though Glóin had not been alive to see it, the loss of Erebor to the dragon decades ago had driven up the price of precious metals and stones to an astonishing degree, leaving their only reliable source of those goods the mines of far-off Rhûn. True, there were some silver-mines in Gondor, but small and meagre. And little use expecting trade from the gem-mines of Harad, with relations with Gondor as bad as they were.

If pressed to look for advantages to their current situation, Glóin would've had to grudgingly admit that at least with the wyrm sitting on that vast mound of _serej_ coinage it would never be available to trade on the markets. Such vast volumes would make gold worth about as much as copper, and there would be many kings and lords out there who would not be happy with that. It would have served well enough released as a slow trickle, but after Thrór's gold sickness-driven hoarding... Still. Thorin would have known better than to be careless with it, if things had been as they should have been.

If things had been better. That was the real reason Glóin had come down to the deep mines. Things were... not right. He _knew_ that they were not right, despite this strange lassitude of uncaring that appeared to have come over them all. Accept a dragon in the mountain? Accept _ten_ of them? Accept an alliance with dead things, which any dwarfling knew were bad news? Any of Durin's people should not let this stand, so why then did he _feel_ no anger when he thought about these indignities, feel indeed, nothing but a calm acceptance while logical arguments that should have provoked rage echoed through his head. He had his suspicions about who was to blame.

As he had asked of them, Dori, Bifur, Bombur and his brother Óin were waiting for him at the agreed meeting place. A mine-lamp threw flickering light onto the rock walls, rough with pick-marks, occasionally studded with strands of electrum ore.

"What's all this about then?" Dori asked as he approached.

"We can speak Khuzdul here," Glóin said, in that language. "We have only ourselves to hear us."

"There has been an outsider amongst us so long it seems even my thoughts are switching into the Common," Dori said, although changing languages easily enough. "It _is_ good to be able to speak it again."

Bifur grunted, and his hands moved in the signs of Iglishmêk; "For me, it is better understood."

Bombur nodded. "But you haven't answered Dori's question," he said. "I'm a cook, not a miner or a merchant, and Dori's trade is in fabrics. And why did you say we mustn't tell Bofur about this? He's the one in charge of the mines; oughtn't he know about whatever it is?"

"Not about this," Glóin replied. "This isn't about the mines. This is about the mountain. Specifically, it is about our King, and the creature he has taken as his Consort."

"Ah, the Hobbit is not so bad," Bombur said. "Strange as he is with all his hair on his feet rather than his face, he is brave enough, and he is no more friend to Elves or Men than any of us."

"He is friend to more than those."

"This is about the dragon," Dori said, looking unhappy. "About the treaty."

"Better to live with a dragon than be dead," Bifur signed.

"Aye," Óin said. "That's the argument that was put to us. But don't you think you all accepted it rather quick? No fighting. No arguing. No looking for an alternative."

"The alternative was being _cooked_ ," Bombur pointed out.

"You all know Thorin though," Glóin said. "Or at least, if you did not know him before, you came to know him over the months of our journey. If I had asked you even in Mirkwood if Thorin Oakenshield would accept a dragon under his mountain, even if the only other hope was a desperate and doomed last stand, would you have said yes?"

As the other three considered this, he began to see the confusion and concern appear on their faces. The realisation that yes, perhaps there _was_ something unusual here. Óin had accepted this already. It had been to his elder brother than Glóin had gone first, seeking assurances that his anxieties had some basis in reality. Glóin had always been prone to uneasiness in the face of success. But after some explanation, once Óin had taken the time to really think it over, he had become aware of it too.

"Surely not!" Bombur said, sitting down heavily on an abandoned stool. "You think the little Lord would do something like that? Cast some sort of spell on all of us?"

"There's another thing," Glóin said. "Why are you calling him _that_?"

"Well, he's going to marry Thorin isn't he?" Bombur replied. "They're going to rule Erebor together."

"We don't call Thorin Lord," Glóin pointed out. "That would be absurd. _King_ Thorin, when formality requires. Any title our burglar would need would be, as I understand it, Prince-Consort. Prince-Consort..." He left it hanging. There was a long silence. Faces creased in increasing confusion.

"Why don't I remember his name?" Dori asked. "Thorin uses it all the time! But I can't..."

"Bofur remembers," Bifur signed. "Thought it the usual for me."

"Yes, Thorin uses it. Bofur has always been friendly with the hobbit. I suspect Fili and Kili might recall it as well. But the rest of us, who are not _close_ to him." Glóin sighed. "There is a reason I only called you four here. Fili, Kili and Ori are too young to be involved in this, even were the Princes not Thorin's nephews. Bofur would not believe it, and though meaning no harm, might easily let something slip. You know what he is like. And Nori... well." He looked apologetically at Dori. "You know I bear your brother no ill will, despite his profession, but he is not what might be called reliable."

"And Balin? Dwalin?" Bombur asked. He was running his fingers over the great plait-loop of his beard in nervous repetition.

"Dwalin would take his brother's side," Óin explained. "And Balin, like the Princes, is too close to be trusted."

"Then what do you want of us?" Bifur signed.

"As yet I do not know," Glóin told them. That was the flaw in this meeting, but he had thought better it happen now then risk the power of this spell taking a greater hold on them in their unawareness. "One thing I want least of all is for my _family_ to come here, but the Raven has already been sent to Dís, and if I were to send another I fear one of those dead Men might be suspicious enough to check it. I know some of Dáin's people are going to come here; perhaps the traffic of post will then be enough to chance it."

"They may have already left by the time such a Raven arrived," Dori said.

Glóin nodded. "So we must plan something else. Some way of dispelling the magic that has ensnared us all."

"Wizards?" Bifur signed, although growling in displeasure as he did so.

"Wizards means Elves and Men," Óin replied. Everyone made equal looks of disgust at that prospect.

"Maybe we can do it ourselves, if we can get a Runesmith here," Glóin said. "One may come with Dáin's folk, or if not that, then I can make myself wait until Dís comes, even if my family comes then too. There'll be enough from Ered Luin that surely they will have a Runesmith."

"Months to wait," Dori sighed. "How much will happen in months?"

There was no reply to be made to this. None of them knew, and none of them had much desire to speculate about it either. For one thing, Glóin knew, those Mahal-damned dragon eggs would have hatched by then, and that was another problem he had no idea how to deal with. Would they still be small enough to kill without great loss of life? It had never been said if the wyrms were even intending to stay in Erebor. They might leave, go off to start their own hoards. If so, may they steal from the Elves, he thought, although it was a vain enough hope. Elves set little store in gold.

"We must keep ourselves mindful," he said. "We must remember that this subtle spell is upon us, and not fall to its effects. We must keep ourselves strong, and recruit others to our cause from the dwarves of the Iron Hills when they arrive."

The others nodded. There was no need for further discussion. They had said all that had needed to be said, and despite some popular opinion, dwarves could indeed be patient. Particularly when it came to holding grudges.


	2. Chapter 2

The Halls of Eryn Lasgalen had been growing ever darker in later years as shadows and spiders encroached upon the kingdom, but that darkness was nothing compared to the pall that had fallen now. The corridors seemed to echo with the presence of those who had died here, and there was no victory to placate their memories. Tauriel was old enough to remember when the woods had been airy and light, and there had been joy and laughter, feasting and drinking and dancing. No longer. Nor any sign that things would return to those ways.

It had been her wish, when King Thranduil still ruled, to go out into the world and fight against the evils that surrounded them. But she had not truly expected anything like what they had faced. She had not known, not as the King and those of his generation had known... now she wondered if they had been right all along. If King Legolas had remained in the Greenwood rather than call their army to seek justice and fight for good, many might have lived who were now dead or wounded unto death. But at what cost? It had always seemed to her the responsibility of the elves to live up to their birthright and principles, and not to do so would be to forsake that which made them who they were. And yet... they had fought for those principles, and evil had still carried the day.

It had been an unpleasant surprise to realise in the aftermath that with the deaths of several older and more experienced elves – and no doubt influenced by her old friendship with their new King – she had somehow been left in charge of the remainder of the army. From Captain of the Forest Guard to a General and the Right Hand of the King... She winced even as she thought it. It was an ill choice of words. Yet despite the poison of that wound Legolas had survived it. He was too strong to fall to that black spell, thank Illuvatar. It was at least a disfigurement better borne than that of dragon fire; Maedhros son of Fëanor had lost his right hand also, and he had done things both great and terrible thereafter. There were worse heroes of the First Age for Legolas Thranduillion to be compared to.

There had been cause for memories and whispers of that Age to arise in the camp as they travelled in any case. Lord Elrond of Rivendell had been fostered by Maedhros for many years. Tauriel had spoken with him from time to time on the journey back to the forest, making sure that the healers were supplied with everything they needed to best tend to the wounded, and she had seen the ghost of old memories in his eyes when he lent his strength to fight that dark taint that had almost struck the King down. She had found herself frightened though, whenever she had cause to go to that tent that still seemed to carry the scent of dragon-fire and burning flesh, frightened in a way she herself did not fully understand. That fear shamed her, and whilst she would have wanted to defy it by bearing the sight of those so terribly wounded she knew only a little of healing, and thus would have been of little use there. Better that she keep to her own areas of expertise, and help her people that way.

Now they had returned to Eryn Lasgalen those skills were being called on in other respects. Legolas had called for her personally, and although she did not yet know what they were to discuss, she had some fair idea.

Legolas greeted her at the entrance of the chambers that had once been his father's, his face still drawn and pale, his arm still in its sling. It had resumed healing, but the unnatural infection had left the limb weak, and the stump painful and tender.

"Come in," he said. "We have much to do."

"I am at your command," she replied. Like the halls, Thranduil's chambers had the same feel of a place abandoned. They might once have been pleasant and welcoming, but Legolas had made no attempt to change anything here and that preservation created the sense of a mausoleum.

"You were there when the White Council persuaded me to order the retreat," he said, sitting and slipping his arm out of its sling, letting the stump rest instead on a pillow while he gently massaged the muscles of his forearm. Lord Elrond had warned that he would have pangs and phantom pains from his missing hand from time to time. "You know the arguments they made."

Tauriel forbore from mentioning that it had been less of a persuasion and more that Lord Elrond had physically held him back from trying to return to the battle and shouted at him until he saw reason. "They told us that we must wait, and build our strength, and return with a greater force with the armies of Middle-Earth behind us," she said instead, since it was clear that Legolas was expecting some kind of answer.

Legolas nodded. He gestured to a roll of parchment that lay on the table. Tauriel picked it up and read it quickly, then again more slowly, her heart sinking at the implications.

"To order a draft of our people," she said quietly. "Such a thing is the way of Men. Has this ever been done amongst us before?"

"As Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel have oft said," Legolas said, with a twisted knife's-edge of a smile. "The time of the Elves in Middle-Earth is ending. My people will reach Valinor one way or another, whether they go in body or merely in soul. At least in the Halls of Mandos we will have good company."

"And what is my role to be in all this?" Tauriel asked.

"Many of those we will be calling upon will not have had any interest in learning the arts of the warrior, even despite all their thousands of years," the King said. "You must arrange their training. Also, we have become too used to fighting in the forest, with all the advantages we have here. The whole army must learn to be just that; an army, not a ranging, guerrilla force as we have been. There are some amongst the Palace Guard who know of such things from the First and Second Age; we must call upon them."

"You have great confidence in me," Tauriel said. It was a greater responsibility than she had ever had before, or indeed ever wanted to have, but she would do it if her King and friend asked it of her. "Is there no-one better suited?"

"None I know and trust as well as you," Legolas replied. "And it is not the only thing we must do in the years to come. Ten years we have, at least, before we can make our move. I admit it is not long, but every year is another in which our enemy grows stronger as well. We wounded Smaug but he will heal, and all our great-bows were destroyed by that fell witchcraft that sundered the earth. More must be made; you must find the plans for them and then we must speak to Lord Elrond. The smiths of Imladris are more skilled than our own, I know."

Tauriel nodded, already steeling herself for the work ahead. "It shall be done," she said, bowing. She would do this; rise to the occasion and make her King proud of the trust he was laying in her. Then when the time came they would wipe this evil from the land. If the elves were to leave Middle-Earth, let them leave it a clean and good place for those who would come after them.

* * *

A Raven had come that morning bearing word that the first band of dwarves from the Iron Hills was drawing near to Erebor. Now Ori waited nervously at the Great Gate with the rest of the Company to welcome them to the mountain. Both Thorin and his Hobbit were looking very fine. Thorin had started to grow out his beard again, although it wasn't quite long enough to braid yet. He'd taken off the outer layer of steel scale-mail he had worn throughout their quest, revealing the fine mithril layer beneath, and he wore a circlet that Balin said had been worn by Thráin when he was the heir to Erebor, in the years before the dragon. The royal crown of course, as all the records told, had been lost on the field at Azanulbizar. Some Moria orc had it now.

One of the dead men that served their Prince-Consort was there as well. Most of the others had left the mountain about a week ago on errands, although Ori didn't know the details. He'd asked Balin about it, since as the official scribe for the Company he ought to write it down in the chronicle he'd been penning. He thought he would call it the Quest for Erebor. Balin hadn't been able to tell him very much though except that it was about diplomacy, and Ori was too nervous around the wraiths to go up and ask one of them.

It was about then that Thorin noticed that Kili was missing, and rounded on Fili with a glare and some pointed questions about where his brother might be. Ori had seen him sneaking off with the black dragon earlier, but he didn't want to say anything and risk Thorin's wrath. He was pretty sure the King wouldn't approve, and Ori didn't actually know if Thorin knew about it. Fili knew at least _something_ , because it _was_ his brother they were talking about, but it might be only the two of them (apart from those concerned) that did. Considering some of the older dwarves opinions about dragons, it might be for the best. For _his_ part, Ori had mixed feelings. Dragons were terrifying, and Smaug at least had killed a lot of people, but they were so old that they knew _so many_ _things_! Just think about everything they might be able to tell him about the history of Middle-Earth!

Kili did turn up before the Iron Hills dwarves arrived, but it was a near thing. Ancalagon also snuck into the Gate-Hall by a different route, curling up in a shadow where he could barely be seen. Ori didn't have time to do more than notice his presence though before Bombur was calling out from the Gate overlook, and the massive doors were swinging open to let the approaching column through.

The Raven had estimated the numbers at about a hundred, and they made a great crowd when set against the Company's mere fourteen, plus one wraith and one dragon. Their leader – a tough-looking dwarrowdam with warrior's tattoos on her shaved head, and a two-handed axe on her back – made all the appropriate greetings to Thorin, and there was a moment's stilted silence, but then the crowd broke apart in a flurry of excited murmuring and began to mingle with the Company, talking about the usual subjects of any two groups of dwarves meeting. Ori had no sooner mentioned that he was a scribe than he found himself being dragged over to meet some of the newcomers with similar interests and professions, and in a little while he found himself part of a small circle of conversation with Balin and a Master of Laws from the Iron Hills, a dwarrowdam named Tazl.

"It is convenient that one of your profession came," Balin said, after some general gossiping, and an interesting anecdote about a dispute in the salt mines a few leagues south of the Iron Hills. "One of the tasks which I have been putting off for lack of experienced hands is an accounting of ownerships and rights in Erebor. We do not yet know which families will be returning to us from Ered Luin or other places, but when they do we must know which homes are rightfully theirs, as well as which businesses, mine-rights, taxes, that sort of thing. Of course all that was stored in the treasury is lost to us, but many agreements were drawn up between the citizens and the royal family, the details of which neither Thorin or I remember exactly. I, and young Ori here, would be gratified to have your assistance in this matter."

"It would be an honour," Tazl replies. "Even just to be able to come here... I almost can't quite believe it to be real. No-one ever thought Erebor would be ours again. Despite the price, none of us who came were willing and wanting to come would say it was not worth it."

"Glad to hear it, lass," Balin said, then addressed the whole group nearby. "Now, you must be tired and hungry after your long journey, all of you. Come, let me show you the rooms we've set aside for you, let you get settled in."

There was a general cheer of appreciation for this, and with Balin leading the way, in drips and drabbles the group began to make its way further into the mountain that from now on would be their home.

* * *

The horses in the stables of Esgaroth were sturdy, hardy beasts, albeit not a patch on the steeds that had once been bred in Barad-dûr from Rohirrim and Khandish stock. Still, Hoarmurath found that his chestnut mare served him well enough as a riding mount, though he would not trust her spirit if it came to battle. Thankfully, real battle was not something he was expecting from this trip.

There was no true road northwards in this age. There had been one once, when Mount Gundabad had still been a dwarf-hall, but millennia had covered it with grass and weeds, with no trace to tell what route it once had led. It made less difference to his progress than might be expected in other terrain however, for even once he had passed the dragon's Desolation the land was still one of open hills and plains, empty moors and scrublands. Instead of rain came flurries of snow; the winter solstice and the turning of the year were nearing. It was a good time to visit orcs. These were the long nights, and the longest, most sacred to come. If he could, he would arrange to be at Gundabad for the Solstice, for the great festival there. All the orc clans of the northern mountains would gather together at that time, even those not under Bolg's rule, protected by truce. The perfect moment to spread the word of this new lord. A new religion.

He made good time. Polda – a name he had given the mare in a moment of whimsy – was made for land such as this, keeping up her endurance on forage in the evenings, maintaining a steady walk and trot for the eight hours the light held, with a few half-hour breaks to rest. Travelling thirty miles in a day, it took Hoarmûrath but three days to reach the foothills of the Grey Mountains. Here, a lone traveller, he did not need to expend much work to find orcs; they found him.

Like all of the Rings of the Nine, Hísë, the Ring of Mist, could detect the presence of other creatures of the Shadow, so that when the attack came it came as no surprise. Even before they made a move Hoarmûrath could feel the slow heart-beats of a dozen orcs concealed in the rocky landscape, grey skin and grey furs letting them blend into the rock. He gave no show of his foreknowledge, but continued at a walk as though a simple traveller foolish enough to come into this dangerous place. Then, with well-practised timing, orcs arose from their hiding places, some with bows drawn, others moving to block the pathway ahead and behind, arrows then quickly buzzing through the air like huge and deadly wasps.

Hoarmûrath turned them aside with a simple spell. As they gaped, he raised his hand and called light, a white flash like the metal-that-burns, heatless and harmless, and split the air with the Nazgûl-screech of fear that made all mortal things quake. The orcs staggered back, shielding their eyes, and went to their knees with cries of terror and awe.

"You know who I am?" Hoarmûrath asked them.

"Yes my Lord," the leader of the little hunting party said, rising and approaching a short distance, though still hunched and half-bowed. "You are one of the Honoured Dead my Lord. Please; we did not know, we would never have dared..."

"I come with a message for the clans of the mountains," Hoarmûrath said. "A message from my master."

"We had heard the Great Eye had been defeated in a battle to the south," the orc said, looking shifty. Likely they had sent the warriors of their particular clan south at Mairon's command, but equally there had been few on that battlefield who had seen enough to know more than distorted rumours of what exactly had happened there.

"Not from the Eye," Hoarmûrath replied. "We serve him no longer. Another has come; another more powerful." This was not precisely true, but what use was the truth in this? This was work of words, saying fine things. Mairon had made promises to his servants, with never the intention to keep them. Their little Lord might have some other ideas, but he still had much to learn, and would understand in time how a legend worthy of service might be made.

"There was also word that Bolg, Chief-of-Chiefs, spoke with a mighty spirit," the orc volunteered.

"He is the one the Nine now serve," Hoarmûrath said. "He is a god from strange and far-away lands, new-come to this earth, and he would stretch out his dominion over these lands. He is fire, and earth, and bounty. He calls the orcs of the north to submit to him and swear their allegiance. He demands your worship."

"By what name might we know this new god?" the orc asked.

Hoarmûrath considered it. Their Lord's old name had been deemed unfit by the One, and he had chosen no new title for himself. If appeared that it fell to him to name him. At least if the Ring found it inadequate, it had ways of making its displeasure known.

"He is Kulkodar, the Father of Fire-Drakes," Hoarmûrath said, and felt Hísë grow warm for a moment on his finger. He had chosen well.

"I will tell our Chief and our God's-Honoured of great and terrible Kulkodar," the orc said, bowing again. Hoarmûrath nodded to him, bid him move aside with a wave of his hand, and nudged Polda forward. This was only one small clan out of hundreds which studded the great snowy peaks of the Grey Mountains. He had many more to find in the weeks to come.

* * *

On his way back from the Hall of Records to his rooms, Ori noticed something rather odd high up in one of the great chambers, those massive rooms where many pathways crossed at different heights, and hundreds of house windows looked out onto the streets and down to shadowed depths. A black shape was moving on the carven stone, climbing towards the dark ceiling. In made him curious enough to investigate, making his way to the room's central stair which ascended in a spiral wide enough for twenty dwarves abreast. He was already quite sure that said shape was Ancalagon, long and lithe as only the dragonet was, but what he was doing was another matter.

The highest road in the chamber crossed the space at a height equal to where Ori had seen Ancalagon moving, but looking around at the rough clusters of stone that jutted towards the pathway, he could seen no sign of the young dragon. He ventured out a short distance, wary, for there was little light up here where so few would ever have need to go. Perhaps Ancalagon had already moved on in the time he had spent climbing?

Then, just as he was about to turn and go, someone he had very much _not_ expected to see poked their head up from a natural crevice in the rock.

"Hello there Ori," Kili called out, grinning far too widely for someone dangling precariously over a drop of several hundred fathoms. "What are you doing up here? I thought Balin had you working with some of the newcomers looking at dull old scrolls."

"I could ask you the same question!" Ori replied, edging closer, looking carefully at the sharp edge of the road, a little too close even for an eternally sure-footed dwarf. "This looks awfully dangerous Kili."

A blocky, black-scaled head extended sinuously from the crack next to Kili's. "We are playing a game," Ancalagon said. "A game of hiding and seeking. Kili says that this is a common past-time amongst young dwarves, and it is a good game for dragons too, because it is like hunting. Of course, treasure in a mountain doesn't move around, but I promised we wouldn't move either once we found a good hiding place."

"Then who are you hiding from?" Ori asked, looking around. Apart from the three of them, there didn't seem to be any sign of movement in the chamber. Although the dwarves from Dain's kingdom had swelled their number, Erebor was designed to hold tens of thousands, with space left over for the humans nearby to retreat into the mountain in times of war and siege. Six-score only filled a corner.

"One of my siblings hatched this morning," Ancalagon replied. "Ondolissë. Smaug said he was still resting so to get out from under his wings, so I suggested this dwarvish game and she agreed."

"And I'm hiding from Fili," Kili said, grinning. "Although he doesn't know he's taking part in a game exactly. We just thought that since it was going on we might sort of unofficially invite him... since he was looking for me anyway."

"Oh." Ori hadn't heard about another egg hatching. The thought made him a little bit nervous. That made three dragons in the mountain now, all of which could do them a lot of harm if they decided the treaty wasn't to their liking. Not that he distrusted them, exactly, he was just very aware of their deadly potential. But Kili seemed to be getting along with them well, so they couldn't be all that bad.

"Do you want to hide too?" Ancalagon asked. "There's room in here for someone so small, or you could find another place and then we would come find you once Ondolissë has found us."

"I have found you already!" Another voice cried out, and as though appearing from the very stone itself suddenly another dragonet leapt from the wall, twisting elegantly in mid-air to land on the walkway. Ori just had time to register scales in all the possible hues of grey before the backwash from the newcomer's wings made him stumble sideways towards the open drop, fumble, teetering, on the edge, and then feel his feet slip away beneath him as gravity laid its grip upon him and he fell.

There might have been shouting above him, but he dropped too fast to tell. Wind whipped past his ears, through his hair and beard. Far-away windows, and much closer pathways, flashed in front of his eyes, gone in moments. And then a larger shape dropped past him like a sleek, pointed stalagmite, and before he knew it he had hit something soft and firm that moved underneath him. His hands shot out instinctively, grasping for something to hold, and found ridges and horny spines. Wings flared either side of him, and then they settled with surprising gentleness on the wide spiral of the central stairs. Ori stayed where he was, trembling, and became gradually aware of something nudging hesitantly against his shoulder and a voice saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again.

Eventually, Ori opened his eyes. The thing nudging him was Ondolissë's head. Pale green eyes blinked at him. "I didn't mean to do that," she said softly. "Please forgive me?"

"At least... at least you caught me!" Ori said, voice tremulous, trying not to be sick. Carefully he managed to work fingers stiff with terror loose, and slid down off the dragonet's back. He was glad, he thought as from a distance, that he wasn't man-sized, because surely he would have been too heavy, might not even have fit in the span of her back between her wings.

A soft sound made him look up in time to see Ancalagon gliding almost silently through the air to land on the steps a little way above them. Kili scrambled off his back where he'd been lying, running down to grab Ori by the shoulders.

"You're alive!" he shouted, grinning with evident relief. "Dori would have _killed_ me if you'd died. Not," he added quickly, "that that's the only reason I'm glad you didn't die, I mean, you _are_ my friend and it was all my fault and I'd have been terribly guilty..."

"That's... okay," Ori managed to fit in between the flood of apologies coming out of Kili's mouth. "I'm fine. I just... really don't want to ever do that again."

"I should have been more careful," Ondolissë said. "It was very high. You were lucky not to hit any of the other walkways."

Ori hadn't thought of that. He gazed upwards, gulping. Yes, if he had hit one at the wrong angle, or after too long a fall, he would have broken bones or maybe even died. Dwarves might be naturally tough, but tough only took you so far.

"Can we go somewhere where there isn't a long drop?" he asked.

Fili, the other, unknowing, member of their disastrous game of hide-and-seek found them some time later in the corridors leading to the area the Company had tentatively claimed as their new quarters – as Ori was well aware, the results of his research might turn up still-living owners, but if so it would also identify homes to which no-one held claim as replacements. Looking rather irritated, the Prince glared at the four of them.

"Kili, where have you _been_ all day?" he asked impatiently. "I had enough trouble finding you even before you got your sling off." He glanced at Ori, and at the two dragons, and said more quietly, "Can we talk Kili, just you and me?"

"Ah, I didn't mean to make you worry or anything Fili," Kili said, looking a bit chastened.

"Have I done something wrong?" Fili asked. "Only we always looked out for each other, on the journey here, but now it seems I hardly see you."

"No, nothing like that," Kili replied, as the two of them went a little way off to have their conversation. "It was only that when I was injured I couldn't do anything useful, and you were busy, so I had to find something else to keep me occupied and I suppose now that there are more dwarves around to take up the slack I hadn't realised... I didn't want to bother you doing something important for Erebor."

"Kili, you're my brother," Fili said, looking pained. Ori shuffled backwards a bit, trying to look as though he wasn't listening. This wasn't really any of his business. "There's _nothing_ more important than you."

Kili didn't seem to know what to say to this. "Well, anyway," he finally replied. "The reason you couldn't find me was, we were playing hide-and-seek."

"You and... the dragons?"

Kili nodded. "Ancalagon and Ondolissë," he said, waving at each of them as he made the introductions. "I've been showing Ancalagon around the mountain, and Ondolissë just hatched this morning. And Ori joined in our game too," he added, not mentioning how well that _hadn't_ gone. Just as well really, Ori thought. Now that it was over, he'd rather it not be brought up again. He would rather forget the whole experience.

"It's like your secret club!" Fili said, smiling. "Dragonets and us young dwarves; yeah, it does seem right that we should stick together. You don't mind another person joining?" he teased.

"Yes, that's it exactly," Kili said, matching his brother's wide grin. "I bet Uncle would be proud of us too, helping diplomacy and all. Obviously, as the Heir you _should_ be doing your part, for the future of Erebor."

"We are pleased to meet you, Prince Fili," Ondolissë said, inclining her head to him. "Although perhaps it is too late, as you dwarves count things, to get to know each other better at the moment. You need more sleep than the Uruloki do."

"That's true," Kili said, and punched his brother in the shoulder in a friendly fashion. "Let's go then. We can talk more in our rooms." They went off together, leaving Ori alone with the two dragonets.

"I notice you were not asked if you _wanted_ to join this confederation we appear to be forming," Ondolissë said to Ori. She sounded amused.

"I don't mind," Ori replied. "So long as it doesn't involve anything like today again. Anyway, Balin, Tazl and the others are all very clever and wise, but they're so much older than me I don't feel I can talk to them outside of our work. The Princes might be, well, princes, but at least they're about my age."

"But we, although reborn, are very much older than you," Ondolissë pointed out. "And some of us may be wiser, though I am not sure about my sibling here."

"Hah!" Ancalagon said, bristling the horns around his head, but not otherwise objecting.

"That's different," Ori said, trying to put his feelings into words. Even though he had only just met the dragonets, he still felt this to be true. "You're dragons. It just stands to reason you'd be old and wise, but it doesn't _feel_ the same as with older dwarves. I can't explain it better than that."

"Well as long as you have no objections," Ondolissë said.

"A young-blood confederation," Ancalagon said, smiling without showing teeth. "Sounds a fine thing indeed!"

* * *

The Gold Road did not only transport gems, silks and precious metals west, it also transported rumours east. Merchants were talkative folk, and Huang Bao counted himself as part of that generalisation. Certainly he made a point at every town along their way to visit the local drinking house to socialise with other travellers. It was wise to hear of any difficulties that might present themselves further along their way, from unfavourable weather to increases in bandit activity, although the Emperor's Guard were eternally zealous in safeguarding the trading routes. What was trade if not the lifeblood of Rhûn, after all? And what a dishonour on His Imperial Majesty's rule, if a traveller could not safely pass from one side of the Empire to the other.

The new whispers from the west spoke of great changes in the Kingdom of Dale. Quite what those changes were, were a matter for debate, and none of those rumours seemed to Bao to be very credible. Dragons and wizards and gold, but sparse on the details that would indicate any real source of truth. However, whatever that truth might turn out to be, it was a cause for concern. Dale and the Iron Hills on their north-eastern border were a vital source of salt and iron, not to mention that the capital, Laketown, served as an excellent buffer and facilitator of trade with the heathen far-western realms, which in their godlessness feared contact with their betters. If that buffer were lost, it would be a great financial blow to both the east and west.

Ah, but he would find out soon enough for himself. Their caravan was reaching the river Rhûr marking the border, and he only intended to venture as far as the salt-towns. Even if something had happened further west, as the rumours indicated, it should not make too great a dent in his profits. He hoped.

The border town of Manzhouli was their last stop before the crossing the river at the great ford of Yangshuo. The caravan itself made camp outside the small collection of houses tightly hugging the rolling landscape. North-east, the desert whose edges they had skirted for the past few weeks could just be seen, nothing but an expanse of cold sand and bare stone. Here though there was enough forage for the oxen and the ponies, and a warm welcome in Manzhouli itself. There was even a small but thriving market for those who did not wish to venture out of lands under the Emperor's protection. Bao spent some time checking over the wares in his wagons before going into town, making sure nothing had shifted or been damaged during the day's travel. His cargo was bales of raw silk wrapped in jute and wax-paper, which he would trade for both a much greater volume of raw iron ingots and forged goods, as well as Gondorian silver, but there was also a heavy lock-box containing gold coin and a few lesser gems which would go to buy salt. Indeed, he hoped to fill it entirely with the white gold. He had been travelling this route for years, and always managed to turn a tidy profit.

Satisfied that all was as it should be, Huang Bao walked into town, stopping for brief conversations with a few of his fellow travellers that he saw on the way shopping for food, or other wares including the strong local spirits, which were fermented from fruits or berries and distilled during the winter months by leaving them outside and picking out the ice as it formed. Personally he avoided such beverages, whose effects on the following day were much worse than civilised rice wine.

The local inn and drinking house seemed unusually quiet when he arrived. It was late enough in the day that he would have expected it to be full of both locals and travellers, drinking and eating their evening meal, but although the windows shone with light, there was no hubbub of conversation audible from the doorway. Nor were there any mounts in the rough stables next to the building save one, a relatively stocky horse with the rough coarse coat of a Dale breed. Frowning, Bao ducked under the low mantle and went inside.

Immediately, he stopped. In the centre of the room the tables and chairs had been pushed aside save for one that now sat before the small shrine recessed into the wall, the shrine of the Eye of Heaven. Sitting upon it was a figure in black robes, hood pushed back to reveal empty air surmounted by a shadowy crown. He was studying a map spread over his knees when Bao entered, but looked up at the sound of the door swinging closed. Instinctively, Bao dropped to his knees and genuflected. It had been thousands of years, the legends said, since one of the Nine _Di_ had walked the Empire at the behest of the Eye of Heaven, but he had no doubt that this strange figure was one of their number.

He was not the only one offering appropriate respect. In the space opened up before the lone chair, the innkeeper was doing the same.

"Merchant," the Honoured Ancestor-Hero said, in a raspy, inhuman voice. "To where do you travel?"

"West to the salt mines, Son of Heaven," Bao replied.

"And from where do you come?"

"From the capital, Son of Heaven." The family house there in the Merchant District had been passed down for three generations, and he dearly hoped would be passed on for many more.

"How many days have you been upon the Gold Road since then?"

"Five weeks travel with wagons, Son of Heaven."

"Good," the _Di_ said. "It may interest you to know that the Will of Heaven is making itself known in a new form in the West. In the Kingdom under the Mountain, the Dragon-Emperor now rules. I bear news of this to the Son-of-Heaven in Rhûn."

"My family and I are ever obedient to the Will of Heaven," Bao replied, his mind whirring. Now those unbelievable rumours seemed less unbelievable.

"You may leave us now," the _Di_ said, dismissing him. Bao shuffled backwards out of the inn, got to his feet, and fled back towards the caravan. He had no wish to stay in Manzhouli tonight.

* * *

Adûnaphel did not expect to have the same luck in Gondor as some of her brothers had had in the lands that were still sworn to the Shadow. At least now, thanks to Hoarmûrath, she had a fit name to give to their Master. She had felt it as they all had through the ring-connections they shared, whilst travelling the south-road east of the Anduin. There had been four of them then, before Ûvatha split off west towards Rohan. Now she, Ren and Akhôrahil were riding through the forests of Ithilien, having skirted the Black Gate and the Dead Marshes. There had been signs of orcs atop the Gate, an indication if any were needed that Mairon was busily securing his hold on Mordor once again. No doubt Nurn had bowed to him already. At least they would be able to count on the orcs of the northern mountain ranges, and they could hope that Ji Indûr would reach the Emperor of Rhûn before whatever messenger the Eye would send.

Ûvatha, however, was having less luck, as they had gleaned from the reports he made back to Kulkodar via his Ring Hortalë. Fengel, the current King of Rohan, had seemed a target ripe for persuasion to their cause, a man much in love with riches, gold and fine things. Ûvatha might have made him many promises with the wealth of Erebor, but he had not been the first to come to the court at Edoras. The White Istari, Curunir, had made no attempt to conceal his presence there. Ûvatha was not strong enough to stand against him alone – he had left without ever entering the building, a pretence of a petitioner who had simply gone away disappointed.

Gondor would be no better, she thought, but at least she could hope there would not be any wizards. It would soon be time for her to take the turning west, through Osgiliath and towards the White City, but before then there was Ithilien, more settled now than she remembered from their days in Minas Morgul. The countryside was, as usual, crawling with Rangers. So far however the three of them had passed undetected, remaining hooded and cloaked at all times, maintaining the illusion of simple travellers.

There was a temptation to go east, just for a little while, to their old home. It would still bear the imprints of them even after all this time, Adûnaphel was sure of that. But it was not in her orders, and would be both foolish and dangerous besides. With the pass of Cirith Ungol and its guard-tower above, it would not have long lain abandoned after Mairon returned to Barad-dûr. To go to Minas Morgul would be to reveal their presence to him.

The orc movements within that wall of mountains had not gone un-noticed by Gondor either, she found, listening in to hushed and worried conversations in way-houses on the road, buying food for the horses and for themselves which they only pretended to eat. The Rangers were concerned, and so were the villagers and townsfolk, and undoubtedly so would the Steward be, as word filtered back to him. In some ways this was good; it was a known threat that they could be a saviour from, or at least claim that, for she knew it would not be believed. It did not need to be believed, not whole-heartedly. Just the thought of it, the subconscious knowledge and touch of hope, would be a slow poison seeping through the minds of those who heard. It would be a foundation for something more.

Adûnaphel left the others a few days later, taking the wide and well-travelled road through long-abandoned Osgiliath, over its great bridge now ruined and spanned with a wooden replacement. She remembered laying siege to this place, when it had still been lived in by a few. The men of Gondor had fought well to preserve this place, but it had never been the same since the plague and the Kin-strife. Now it was simply rubble around the road, a throughway, long past the days of its glory.

From Osgiliath she went through the equally fallen Rammas Echor, and then the flat, fertile, open farmland of the Pelennor Fields stretched before her all the way to the foothills of the White Mountains and the White City nestled against them, shining in the sun in the far distance. If it did come to war, this wall would not stand against any army, she thought to herself, but perhaps with the threat from Mordor, the Steward would order repairs to be started. As she understood it from quiet enquiries on the road, Turgon the Old was the current Steward, aged for a Man without the blood of Númenór at eighty-six. He was still sound of mind, but tired easily, so that much of his daily work had been delegated to his son Ecthelion II.

It was only another day's steady travel on the good road before Adûnaphel reached the Great Gate of Minas Tirith. She made it inside before it was shut over for the night, and found lodgings, since the court would see no petitioners before the next day. It would not be wise to reveal any part of her nature before entering the Steward's Hall. She doubted any here had a weapon that could harm her, but they still might force her out of the city with a concerted effort, or bar the Seven Gates against her whenever she might approach. She was not here to make Gondor an even greater enemy than it already was.

The seventh and final gate of the city opened onto a wide stair, which led up through the spire of rock that stuck out through the city like the prow of a ship towards Mordor. Atop it, the spire had been flattened out into an open plaza, the Court of the Fountain, no doubt used for ceremonies when the need arose. She had never seen this much of Minas Tirith before, although it felt so very familiar, the sister of its dark twin east of the Anduin. A small crowd of petitioners formed an orderly line up to the great doors of the Hall, skirting a wide half-circle around the dead remains of the White Tree. It was strange to look upon to her otherworldly senses; even lifeless it had within it a brightness like moonlight, a fell light that in its day would have burned.

Hooded, cloaked, Adûnaphel joined the line in the guise of an old crone, having adopted a bent posture and taken up a gnarled walking stick as her disguise even before she passed through the seventh gate. She waited patiently. She would approach the Steward in this manner, give him advice and words of wisdom as an aged soothsayer, and only reveal her true self if it became necessary. A witch-woman might be reviled or disbelieved, but she had decided her chances were better judged thusly than as one of the Nazgûl.

When it finally came her turn to pass between those tall doors, she beheld the hall inside with curiosity. It was formed of white stone with black pillars, and lined with white marble statues of the Kings of old. At the head of the hall was a dais with three chairs, the tallest of which was raised up high above the others at the top of a stair. The Steward Turgon sat in the left-hand chair at the foot of the stair, seeming half in a doze, and his son sat in the chair to the right. There were none of the nobles or courtiers she might have expected, but hearing petitions was not work of much interest.

"You may approach and present your petition," the guard at the door told her. Adûnaphel mocked a trembling curtsey to him, and made her way slowly towards the dais.

"My lords of Gondor," she said. There was little need to make her voice any more ghostly than it already was. "My lords, I come not for myself, but for our great nation. It has been given of me to see things, visions and dreams of past, present and future, and what I have seen concerns me."

At this, Steward Turgon roused, and drew himself more upright in his chair. His son leaned forward. "Little have visions or works of magic ever aided Gondor," Ecthelion said. "For who can say whether they come from a true source or from the enemy. Yet I respect that you have come here with good intentions. Speak, and we shall deliberate upon the news you bring."

Adûnaphel curtseyed again. It amused her, thinking how different would be their words were she truly known. The curve of her hunch made her hood hang low, obscuring any suspicion that there was naught to be seen where a face should be.

"My lords must surely know already that a shadow has returned to the east," she said. "In my dreams I have seen darkness and fire. It is a doom that all who see it know will come, even if not within the lifetime of one such as I, or within yours, my lord Steward. The strength of Gondor has been tried before, and it shall be again. The paths of the future are unclear – though I am pained to say it, Gondor is not as strong now as it was in ages past."

"Then you offer an ill omen indeed," Turgon said. His gnarled fingers gripped the arms of his chair, uneasy.

"It is ill, but I also see hope," Adûnaphel replied. "There are other powers within the world."

"If you speak of the wizards, Mithrandir the Wanderer has not been seen in these lands for many years," Ecthelion said. "As to Saruman, Warden of Orthanc, perhaps he will be of help if war comes, but even he is but one man. I hope your visions have better news than this."

"A change has come far to the north," she said. "Dwarves have retaken one of their ancestral kingdoms, with the help of a great ally. My dreams have shown him to me. Above all, I have seen, this lord desires peace, peace across all lands. He is no friend to the Enemy."

"Curious," Ecthelion said, leaning back. "And easy enough to check if it is true, although no word has yet come of it to us so far south. Were your visions clear enough to put a name to this power? Is he a Man? A Dwarf?"

"Something far stranger. He wore a form that looked like a human child, but he was a man grown."

"I have heard of creatures such as these, in old tales," Ecthelion said, frowning. " _Perian_ , those stories called them, but did not speak of any great deeds or powers."

"The visions were not clear," Adûnaphel said apologetically. "Perhaps that is not what he really is, only how he has chosen to appear. There was a name I heard; Kulkodar. I do not know its meaning."

"A strange name," Steward Turgon mused. "Yes, very strange. Still you have given us much to think upon, my good woman." He waved a hand to dismiss her. Adûnaphel made her way back out of the hall, marvelling at her good fortune. She had feared they would insist on pulling back her hood, seeing her face, but they had not. They had listened to a version of the truth that was close enough to it to put considerations of allegiance into their minds.

She would speak this truth again many times in the days to come, in the ale-houses and inns of the city. She would let gossip carry it, a balm to fearful souls, and Gondor would be one step closer to being theirs.

* * *

Six weeks had passed since that fateful day when Ori had nearly fallen to his death, and in the intervening time the rest of the eggs had hatched, so that now their small association of friendly dragons and dwarves had gained seven more members on top of those five who began it. Fili had been trying to recruit some of the younger dwarves from the Iron Hills with his brother's help, but all of them seemed to be too intimidated by the dragonets to want to spend any time with them. This, he felt, was rather a shame. It was lonely now being a prince in a way it hadn't been before. The easy camaraderie of the Company was being slowly drawn apart by their different jobs, and the newcomers regarded those who'd won the mountain with a too-distant respect. They were friendly enough, but not _friends._

So in the end, when neither Thorin nor Balin had any lessons or work for him, Fili found himself spending a lot of time with the dragonets. At least they always had interesting stories to tell about the First Age, when they had last been alive. And they liked hearing his own stories about the mischief he and Kili had gotten up to when they were younger, and about life in Ered Luin, and about their mother, and in fact about dwarves in general.

Right now, however, he was teaching them another game.

"It's called Hnefatafl," Fili explained to his attentive audience. "You see, the colours of the pieces represent two different armies, and the shapes mean different roles. One side has a King that they're trying to get off the board, and the other has to capture them." Ten dragon faces of various sizes, Smaug included, studied the lines of the board that had been chalked onto the floor with interest.

"An intriguing exercise in strategy," Glaurung said. His claws clicked on the stone as he padded around, looking at the set-up from various angles. "A mind is kept flexible by playing many such games as this, where I am sure it is as much a matter of judging one's opponent as simply knowing a list of ways to counter their tactics."

"I suppose so," Fili replied. Glaurung tended to be rather intense, and was, he was sure, considerably more intelligent than him. It was rather intimidating. He got on better with Ancalagon, who was more than willing to join him and Kili in 'frivolous pursuits'.

"Such exercises are all very well," Glaurung continued. "But a Prince requires more specific training in the arts of war."

"I've had training," Fili objected. "Master Dwalin taught me how to wield a blade."

"He meant tactics," Raumo said. "Reading a battlefield, leading troops, organising your armies, manoeuvring against your foes." The pale, cream-coloured dragon sounded exasperated.

"I'm not going to need anything like that anytime soon though am I," Fili pointed out.

"Don't be so sure," copper-shaded Calarus replied.

"What do you mean?" The battle outside Erebor was long over – the orcs had retreated back to the mountains, and from what they heard, were too afraid of Bilbo to dare come back. The elves had gone, running away even before the orcs did. He supposed that at some point they might try and attack again, but it wouldn't be any time soon surely?

"You ought to have waited until Kulkodar told them," Heren, scales shining like silver, said disapprovingly. "Too late for that now though." At this point Fili was used to them using that title, although Bilbo himself didn't seem to care much either way that he had seen.

"I do not think he will mind it coming from you," Smaug said.

"Well, _someone_ tell me," Fili said, confused and not a little exasperated.

"There probably will be a war," Ancalagon admitted. "Although we don't know yet when it will come. But Bilbo – Kulkodar – made a promise to Smaug that he was going to use all this power the Ring has given him. He wants there to be peace throughout Middle-Earth, so that people can settle their grievances with words rather than resorting to war."

"That sounds like a good thing though," Fili said. "So why would there be war if he's going out of his way to stop it?"

"Because the only way to prevent all wars is to be the ultimate authority," Glaurung replied. "You have told us how dwarvish arguments are settled; you have Masters of Law who judge these conflicts, and if that is not accepted, then it is taken to the King or Queen. Kulkodar would be that King."

"Put it this way," Turcosú said. "If two Kingdoms of Men had a disagreement about where their borders lay, or about their trade, or if one were acting to threaten the other, instead of fighting they would go to Kulkodar and he would sort it all out."

"Middle-Earth is a very big place," Fili pointed out. "How is Bilbo going to be everywhere he would need to be? It's a lot to ask of people to come all the way to Erebor when they have a problem."

"If he has not considered it already, we were thinking of suggesting the dwarvish model of the courts to him," Glaurung explained.

"I suppose it would be helpful to have impartial judges," Fili said doubtfully. "But I can see that certain people might not like the idea. I can't see any Elf accepting someone else telling them what to do – they're too used to having their own way."

"And that is why it will come to war," Glaurung said.

"And why I'm going to have to be ready." Fili nodded. He understood now. Well, Thorin was his uncle and his King, and Bilbo was now both those things just as much. He wanted to help. He wanted to be worthy of being the Prince of Erebor. "Will you teach me what you know?" he asked them.

"You and your brother both," Glaurung replied.

* * *

When Dís had finally received the raven-message from her brother, her immediate reaction had been relief. Thorin was alive, and, skimming the letter, so were her sons. They had not perished in dragon's fire as she had feared. The very fact that they had been able to send a message by this route had indicated their good fortune east of the Misty Mountains. Reading through the letter more carefully however, she had been struck by its strangeness. Thorin spoke of unexpected allies, and of some kind of treaty with Smaug the thief and murderer, which made her sure that somehow she was not understanding the strange code that her brother was using.

But still. Erebor was theirs. That much had been plain. She had been swift to spread the good news, and mere days after that the first group of dwarves had been ready to leave. Dís had told them about the dragon, choosing her words carefully, but with Erebor at the end of their journey few cared. Of those who had gathered outside the gates of Ered Luin, most had either fled Erebor all those years ago, or were the children of those who had. They had packed light for the journey – the general agreement had been that whatever goods and belongings they owned could be sent along later, for they had no time waste being slowed down by wagons. They had left Erebor with nothing, and they would return with nothing.

Of course they'd been limited in their numbers by what was practical. They were not an army, and Dís had learned from that first exodus how hard it was to feed a great host. So, she had decided, they would set out in groups of two hundred, leaving two weeks apart, so that they would not strip the towns they passed through bare of food. She herself had left with the first of those parties, along with the families of Thorin's Company.

Now, four and a half months later, after a perilous crossing at a little-used pass over the Misty Mountains near that Elven stronghold Rivendell, and shielded from orcish attack by their own numbers, they had arrived at the Long Lake, and were making their way towards the Lonely Mountain.

Those rare travellers and traders who had been to Laketown in the years since the dragon had brought back tales of a great, bare desolation in the lands around the mountain, the old fields, meadows and groves lying dead and barren, but now she saw that this was no longer the case. Green grass was spreading out like a carpet from the foothills of the mountain, and sapling pines grew in clusters upon the spurs that cupped ruined Dale and the Great Gate. The air felt fresh and clean, as though spring would come early this year. Even the forest trail through Mirkwood had not been as perilous as they had feared, and though at times they had felt eyes watching them, nothing had ever come of it.

Confident that there would have been Ravens about watching the approach to the Gate, Dís led her two hundred up to the new-built doors, admiring the clean stone-work of the outer wall and the overlook above, seeing the work of her brother's hands in little embellishments here and there. As they came nearer, a dwarf she did not know standing watch shouted to those inside, and the gates swung slowly outwards to welcome her.

There was her brother, standing waiting for her. Five months growth had made of his shorn beard something that now could be braided, and in shining mithril mail he looked every bit the King she'd always known he could be. Fíli and Kíli were beside him, looking no different than when they had left her over a year ago. She grabbed Thorin tight in a bone-crushing hug as soon as he was near enough, hearing him laugh.

"Idiot," she muttered. "I'm so glad to see you."

Her sons were the next to be embraced, to their expected, fond protests. Blinking, she did her best not to let tears of happiness fall. It had been so long. So long since she had seen them. So long since they had had hope. Now they had Erebor, and there had been none of the hefty price she had feared.

Eventually though Dís did have to let her boys go. It was at that point she noticed the other person standing there, a little off to the side. He was a strange creature, a little shorter than a typical dwarf with curly brown hair and odd golden eyes the colour of the sun. He wore armour that bore her brother's makers-mark, and a horned crown. Thorin's letter had spoken of finding his One, of making him Prince-Consort. She had even guessed from his rather sparse details that he was referring to the mysterious burglar that Tharkûn had promised to find them, but she hadn't expected him to be quite so unusual.

"Ah," Thorin said, seeing where she was looking. "May I introduce my _sanâzyung_ , Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo, my sister Dís."

"It is good to meet you," Bilbo said, smiling. "Thorin has been fretting about when you would arrive for weeks. Quite apart from seeing you again, he also has a request he'd like to make of you."

"Oh?" Dís asked. From the tone of voice she could tell this request would be nothing ill. "And what request might that be?"

Her brother almost blushed. "I wanted you to officiate at our wedding," he mumbled. After a moment's astonishment, Dís laughed.

"How long has it been, months?" she said. "And you've put your wedding off for all that time just so I could do it? Thorin, really, you are simply ridiculous."

"Sister," Thorin said, looking even more embarrassed. His consort only grinned wider.

"Of course I'll do it," she said. "But first I think there are a lot of things you need to explain. What's all this I hear about a dragon?"

That was to be a very eventful conversation.


	3. Chapter 3

Dusk had fallen hours past, and the eye of the moon had closed and shed no light. It was a good omen to fall on this year's Long Night, and thus upon the rule of Bolg, new High-Chief of the Mountains. His father had earned a worthy death in the open lands to the south following the orders of the One, and it was no dishonour upon him or his line that it had been all for nothing. The People were used to having their achievements thrown down by the children of the Light, so, unlike Men or Elves, they did not measure their worth merely in their victories.

Now though, there was a new power in the Darkness. One stronger even than the Great Eye. Bolg himself had received the honour of being present at the moment of their battle, watching the new spirit triumph, and speaking to that lofty creature himself. Bolg had shown the new spirit the respect that strength was due, that a God was due, and promised that the People would come when called as all the old and holy laws demanded. All in all, it had made a fine start to his reign.

Beneath Gundabad, in the places Mahal's burrowing-worms had carved from natural sacred stone, the many tribes of the People now gathered. The Long Night had come, and with it the time to honour the Gods. But with the coming of the tribes had also come whispers of words issued forth from the Honoured Dead themselves, words of the new spirit, instructions for what name to put into the chants and calls, the name to underpin the beats of the drums that summoned the attention of the Gods. Kulkodar, it was spoken, Father of Fire-Drakes. And thus the argument that now prevented the ceremonies from going ahead. Were the gathered God's-Honoured to pull down the statues and icons of the Great Eye and replace them with the symbols of the new God? If so, what were those symbols to be? They had but a name, and the connection within the pantheon to the spirits of Living Stone, but that was not enough to satisfy the honour of a God.

It had come to much violence already, for such was the way of the People, but Bolg had no patience for this disturbance of the first Long Night under his rule. Unfortunately, neither did he possess an answer, as would be expected of a High-Chief. Instead he prayed to Kulkodar to send the Honoured Dead who walked the Mountains to his halls to guide them.

It seemed for some time that the question would come to out-right war in the tunnels before those prayers were answered. A messenger came running from the Great Gate, pushing her way through the crowd with growls and swipes of claws, yelling, and after her came cold, and silence, and the awe-inspiring, bone-chilling presence that marked the Lords of the Dead.

The gathered tribes parted for Him like a herd of deer before a wolf. Cries and tumult stopped utterly.

"Bolg, Chief of Gundabad and the Mountain Clans," He of the Honoured Dead said, in the Black Speech of Mordor. "I am Hoarmûrath, of the Nine. I bring greetings, blessings, and tidings from Kulkodar."

"I bid you welcome, great one," Bolg replied, rising from his seat and bowing his head. The Chieftains of the People knelt only to true Gods, not to mere Kings like Men did, but they knew how to show respect. "We had hoped to see your presence here on this night." He spoke in the same tongue, although the words did not come as easily as those of the northern dialect. Southern Black Speech had been more familiar in his youth, for his father had always used it, but Azog had not spent much time with his son after Bolg had reached the age of maturity. It would not have been expected of a Chief.

"And yet you haven't put away the symbols of the Eye," Hoarmûrath-King noted. "although you saw Kulkodar's power upon the field of battle."

"It is a matter for the God's-Honoured," Bolg replied. "Not for one such as I. I may only advise." From their own places, he saw those he named flinch.

"I understand," Hoarmûrath said, and the priests relaxed a little. "They cannot know what I have not yet told them. That is why I am here, after all."

"By your command, great one," Bolg said.

Hoarmûrath approached, climbing the stairs of the dais towards the great shrines that had been set up where once the stone-burrowers had crafted the images of their ancestors. He paused for a moment, regarding the iron Eye glowing eternally red-hot from the brazier at its back. Then he drew the sword at his waist and brought it down in a great arc, shearing straight through the symbol of the Old God.

"No more," he said. "Mairon is gone. He has been brought low. He is no longer worthy of your worship."

"What is Kulkodar's symbol?" Akûl God's-Honoured asked, sidling forward. "So we can worship him as we should."

The Honoured Dead made a gesture and spoke words of power. Writhing like serpents, the sundered loops of iron were pulled into a new pattern. With its tips sky-ward, the crescent moon of horns, and within its encircling grasp, a flame.

"Bow to this in the Long Night," Hoarmûrath-King told the tribes. "And when the call comes, as it shall, be ready to march to war."

* * *

Khamûl was not displeased with their progress. Many months had passed now since the others of the Nine were sent out, riders to bear word, and if perhaps what had been done might not be counted much amongst the short-lived races of Middle-Earth, that mattered little. They were not mortals, that lengths of years should concern them, and nor were their opponents. This was not a war that would be fought too soon; it would not start until each side thought their advantage best. For Lord Kulkodar that meant waiting, as much as it did for the Istari and the Elves.

Building allies, as Kulkodar would call them, or servants, as Khamûl would, was a gentle and delicate work. Thus far Hoarmûrath had been doing well in this in the lands northwards. The Mountain Clans were beginning to bow to their new god as they ought, and at the meeting in the Long Night Lord Mairon's symbol had been cast down and a new one raised in its place. It was not that orcs were fickle; merely that they respected strength. And Kulkodar had shown himself to be the stronger. Even were it not for the ever-growing respect Khamûl had for him as a worthy lord, he would have been forced to admit the truth in that moment all those months ago at the close of the battle; that the Halfling had truly proved himself master of the One and Mairon's equal. So that was the success of one, out of the seven who had gone.

At the end of the Gold Road to the east, Ji Indûr had been equally fortunate. It had always been the Nine who had served as emissaries to that land rather than any man or orc, for those of Rhûn were a great people both in number and in might, and rightfully proud with it. They would not have bowed to any other than a great spirit, a King of old, a glorious ancestor of whom they might at least say 'well, is he not one of us? Does he not have the right to rule and command us?' Such had Khamûl been to them, and such had been Ji; feared and loved and respected in equal measure. It was perhaps not so much to wonder at, that the Emperor of Rhûn had favoured Ji over whomever Mairon had undoubtedly sent, for all that the Nazgûl spoke of a new and unfamiliar god working the will of Heaven.

In Khand, Khamûl knew, they would not have been so lucky, and with such vast and guarded distances to travel it had not been worth the effort to send another of their number there. Khand bordered Núrn, and Núrn was sworn to Mordor without question. Of the many tribes of the Haradwaith however, there was more to dare and to be gained. Without Mairon to force them into line they had returned to their old ways, Kings warring with Kings, looking only inward rather than outward to the nations of Men under Ilúvatar that rested too far to the north to be of overmuch interest. Mairon was not the power he had been, and if he wanted their armies to go to war for him, he would have to win them again. He could promise much with the fertile plains of Núrn behind him, but a taste of freedom was a sweet thing, too sweet to easily give up. Ren was asking less of them than the banner of Mordor would.

As for Umbar, well, the Black Nùmenorians had ever been the Nazgûl's kin. That spoke for much. Akhôrahil had secrets and power and history, and was willing to share them rather than hoard as Mairon had wished him to in the past. Their border clashes with Gondor grew ever more tense, and the smallest advantage was worth both thanks and loyalty. It would come to war there perhaps sooner than it would in Erebor, Khamûl thought. If so, Lord Kulkodar would want to act and return peace to the world, but the path he would choose to do so was yet unknown to him. The Halfling thought in ways too alien for even the Lieutenant of the Nine, although he was learning.

As for Gondor, well, rumour worked its subtle ways throughout that land. Adûnaphel might be known for her more common silences, but when words needed to come forth from her dead lips they were silver and honey. A little after her audience with the Steward, the Grey Wizard Mithrandir had come to the White City, but although he had been vocal in speaking out against what she had said he had already been too late. The promise of a saviour had taken hold, and all of Minas Tirith was abuzz with gossip. By that time Adûnaphel had left, and gone forth on the south-road to Dol Amroth, and the name of Kulkodar rode in her wake.

The establishment of their power closer to home had not been forgotten in all this either. The building work in Dale was proceeding to schedule, and some of the Men of the Lake were beginning to move their homes back to their city of old under the current leadership of Bard the Bowman. The Master had remained in Laketown to better manage his profits from the trade-routes which ran through there. Bard likely had not been his first choice, as it would not have been Khamûl's given that the man had been willing to fight alongside the elves, but he was popular with the ordinary townspeople and at least so far had not caused any trouble. As to the elves themselves, or at least those of Mirkwood, Balin had organised an envoy to be sent to them to further discuss the terms of the current tentative peace. Dis would not be the only dwarf to come by that road, and those who came later would be travelling in small groups whose potential disappearance might never after be discovered. It was a diplomacy Khamûl did not think much of.

Dis herself had been much as Khamûl had expected of one of the Royal Line of Durin – strong-willed and stubborn, but in the end amenable to reason when put forth by one whom she trusted. In this case it had been her sons, the young princes. It seemed the alliance which had been growing between them and the Uruloki had born early fruit. Dis could have been troublesome, and that had been a potential disaster neatly averted.

Not all the events of these past months had been in their favour, however. Curunir the White had turned Uvatha away from Rohan, the Istari too strong a threat for one to handle. And in the mines and workshops of Erebor, things were not as they should have been. Many dwarves had come to the Mountain as word trickled out to them that it could be a home for their kind once more. Some had turned away when the truth about the treaty was made known to them, but their number was not great. Mahal had made a sensible people, after all. But some, as Khamûl only suspected but could not prove, chose to remain with malice in their hearts. Whether they would ever gather the will or critical mass of numbers and wrath to act against their King, of a line that still laid claim to Durin's blood, he could not yet say, but in small things and whispers in dark corners they made themselves known, in the way of a slow poison acting upon the one who had foolishly imbibed it. Missing tools, delays, faults in machinery, errors in mine-maps… too easily put aside as ill-chance. Khamûl knew better. Millennia of experience taught him better. There was a faction in Erebor that abhorred the dragon, and more than that, abhorred Kulkodar, broker of the truce and father of fire.

Khamûl had no intention of allowing such a group to continue their existence. A meagre threat they might be but yet still a threat. He was not a creature much made for mercy, unlike his master, and nor had he served him long enough to learn it. It might not be to Kulkodar's liking, but Khamûl would do what he had to do to protect the tentative empire that was still being forged.

* * *

In the high tower of Orthanc, in wide green Isengard, Saruman the Wise regarded his latest experiment. As all those which had come before it, it was but a simple band of gold unadorned with either jewels or runes, for he was Maiar and cared little for unnecessary ostentation. Sauron had needed no gems to hold the power he poured into his craft, nor would it be to his advantage to do so, for stones could be split or pried loose from their housings even despite the strength that they held. Beauty was weakness in the making of Rings. Nor would Saruman be any the lesser of one whom, many Ages of the earth before, he might have called cousin.

Still, for all that he had gleaned in doing this, all his gathered knowledge of the craft from sources both ancient and far-flung, he had not yet been able to create a ring to rival the One. The battle upon the bare plains at Erebor had proven that much. That ring, which had served him well in expanding his powers during the Council's assault on Dol Guldur, had failed utterly when faced with the One. That the song of its magic had been woven so greatly into his spells at the time had meant they were sundered and useless when its influence was banished. He had been forced to fall back on the reserves of his strength and thus allowed the Halfling creature too great an advantage.

In some ways, however, Saruman considered that day more of a boon than a disaster. Lost for so long, beyond even the reach of the Palantir to discover and revealing only darkness when he looked, at last the One Ring had come again to light. It might have fallen into the hands of a creature who was not worthy of it, who had become the controlled instead of the controller, but it did not have to stay that way. Once the Halfling had been defeated, the Ring would be his for the taking, and then he would be able to use it as it ought to be used.

But first, there would be a war. Rohan had bowed to his wishes easily enough, following the example of its King, a pitiful and weak-willed man who had at first been reticent to begin the long-term preparations for war that would be needed in the days to come. It had required Saruman's magic to teach him better. Fengel would not now pose any further problems. Mithrandir however was not proving as successful preparing Gondor for the return of its King, a fact which did not entirely surprise him. Olorin had never been sufficiently decisive, and his machinations did not always come well to fruition. The Elves would play their part, but Men… Men were weak. Saruman was not about to trust to their strength to do what must be done.

One thing that the Enemy had succeeded in, quite apart from his apprentice Sauron's skill at smithcraft, was in crafting a tool for waging war. The orcs were numerous, fast-breeders, and easily susceptible to the influence of magic. They were not perfect however. They feared light, were inclined to cowardice, and had no formal training in the arts of battle. Saurman had a mind to change that. This Halfling would have orcs behind him when he made his move, and what better shield for the forces of good than an army of the expendable. Already he had given commands in Fengel's name for raiding parties of Rohirrim to go into the mountains and drag back orclings to Isengard. It would be better to have young ones for his experiments, he had decided. More malleable.

As to precisely what traits to bestow upon them and how, well, he had certain ideas along those lines as well. They had been made with magic and might, in times long past, and both would serve well in the long months and years ahead. Nor would it be the first time that orcs had bred with Men.

* * *

Estel was too young for his Ada to tell him anything important, which he felt was unfair in the way that grown-ups were always unfair, but he didn't need anyone to say it out loud to know that there was something wrong. Ada had gone away for a long time, leaving him with Estel's older brothers (although they weren't actually related because Estel was adopted, which meant he didn't have pointy ears and he was clumsy and grubby all the time), and when he had come back Ada was very sad. He hadn't smiled in the way he used to whenever they had parties in the halls, or when the bards played music, and he wrote lots of long letters to his daughter, who Estel had never met, and who was staying with family in woods far to the east.

Estel tried very hard to find out why all of this was, which at first meant asking, and then meant hiding and trying to listen in on conversations, but no-one ever told him the real reason, and even though he was going to grow up to be a Ranger like his birth father and his mother he wasn't actually very good at hiding yet. Lindir, who was the Steward and looked after the food and helped guests and generally organised things, kept finding him and dragging him away back to his lessons.

That had been another thing that had changed since Ada came back from his journey. Before, the only things he'd had to learn had been to read and write, and aside from that he would just ask questions about whatever things sounded interesting, like the history behind the songs that were sung in the halls at night, or the meanings of paintings or statues, or little bits of wood-craft here and there. Now though he had an actual tutor, who made him sit down with dull books full of names of important people who lived very far away. Estel didn't like it. It was _boring_. He didn't understand why Ada wanted him to know about any of this, or what it had to do with him. He was a _Ranger_. A Dunedain of the north. He was going to do what his mother did right now; lead the Dunedain in protecting everyone from bad things like wolves and orcs - he knew it was an important job because doing it meant his mother had to go all over the country and wasn't able to come and see him very often.

Some of it wasn't too bad though. Apart from names, Estel was also being taught about battles, and that was much more exciting. But even here his tutor would make things much less interesting than he felt they ought to be. It was the way he talked about it, somehow managing to make everything dry and dusty and just _boring_. Tactics and 'then this unit moved here and did this' and somehow Estel found his attention drifting even though it never did when the bards told these tales in the evenings in front of flickering fires.

He did try his best to do as he was told and remember everything, and then he had to write essays about it and think about what he might have done in battle if he had been the commander, or what he might have done to settle a dispute between two families. The last part at least made sense. Mother told him that sometimes people would fall out in the towns and villages, sometimes people from two different, important families and then she or one of the other Rangers would have to go and 'bang some heads together' and sort it all out. Estel didn't think his tutor approved of that solution though, because he wrote disapproving comments all over Estel's essay after he wrote about it.

All of this had to be for a reason. It had to be leading up to something. Estel just couldn't figure out what that something was, and no-one wanted to tell him. Not even Ada. Whatever it was, surely that meant it couldn't be good.

* * *

As they had all known it would, the mountain was slowly coming back to life. Ondolisse felt that she was present at an important moment in history, there as though to bear witness to the return of the Kingdom of Erebor which for so long had been laid low and scattered. Now in small groups, those dwarves were coming back, following the example of Dis and of the Iron Hills. They filled up the empty rooms and halls and made light and music. They crafted clever things with their hands from the dull metals that were their kindred and birthright, although she, like her own kin, was less pleased that they delved also for silver and gold, or for gems, even despite the tithe to the Uruloki.

But it was an agreement made under the influence of Kulkodar, who _felt_ like a brother-Maiar, even if he was only the borrowed kind of one, and it would take time for the substance of him to become something greater. It was already beginning to happen though. His power spread out through earth and air and water, a power of birth and growing things. Neither Dwarves nor Men had yet noticed the increased rate of conception which it had caused, but that was evidence that could only go unnoticed for so long.

All these months of peace had lead to a certain amount of goodwill between those who now shared the mountain, and Ondolissë, like her siblings, had made good use of the opportunities presented them. For her own part she had a keen interest in knowledge, though not in the hungry, weaponised way of Glaurung for whom every little fact or secret was a blade to be spat like fire from the tongue, but in a rather more abstract fashion. Her current friendship with the young dwarf-princes allowed her to glean much more intimate experience of their kind than books or second-hand accounts ever might, and though in the past, before her first death, she would not have thought them a people worth knowing, time and acquaintance had changed that.

At the moment, she was taking advantage of that friendship to attend Kulkodar and Thorin's court, sticking to the shadows as was her habit, helped by her colouring if not by her growing size. At the current time neither King nor Consort were dealing with doings of much importance to the realm as a whole, although certainly it was important in the more personal scheme of things. To be precise; they were hearing the complaints of those who felt their grievances too great for any but a ruler to pass judgement upon, and as a Prince in the making, Fíli was observing it too.

The current petitioner was no-one Ondolissë knew, but keen ears had picked out their name as Aslâm, and from the dwarf's garb, she was one recently arrived in Erebor, and had not yet shaken the dust of the trail from her boots to be replaced by dust of mine or workshop.

"King Thorin," the dwarf said, "I have come before you to ask that you repair an injustice."

Thorin, crowned with iron, a new circlet to replace that which Ondolissë knew to be lost beneath the Misty Mountains, nodded to her and motioned for her to continue. He too, like them all, was changing, becoming more solemn, more opaque, although judging by the words of his nephews he always had been set apart from the others of the Company by the burden of Erebor-lost. Now his burden was the burden of all Kings.

"It concerns elves," Aslâm said, and a murmur went through those who were watching. Ondolissë felt her own spinal plates rise and flare outwards without conscious control. She had old, bad memories from her last life that spoke of good reason to fear the hate of the elves, and if she had not yet been hatched to see it, she knew all too well the fate that had befallen their first-born sibling. "Specifically, the elves of Eryn Lasgalen."

"Legolas," Thorin said, sneering. "I find myself not surprised. What foul acts have he and his kind done now?"

"I know that after the battle that occurred here you ordered Legolas Thranduillion to give safe passage to dwarves that wanted to travel the Mirkwood Road," Aslâm began to explain. "But from what I myself experienced, the elves are becoming more and more of an obstacle. When I first entered the forest with my party, we were aware of being watched from the shadows and the trees, and the elves made sure enough to let us know who those eyes belonged too. Then, later, when we were attacked by the giant spiders that even now still roam the forest, although we all knew they were there the elves made no move to help us. Thankfully we suffered only minor injuries, but it could have been much worse."

"You were right to bring this to us," Kulkodar said, his eyes blazing golden and waves of indignation pouring from him. "With Mairon gone there shouldn't be any spiders as far north as that. It would not be the first time the elves used those creatures as a weapon they don't have to dirty their hands with. This is not what they promised."

"None of us should be surprised that elves break their word," Thorin said with contempt. "It seems they force our hand."

"Not, I hope, to outright war," Kulkodar said quickly, laying a hand on his partner's. He turned his attention to the young dwarf standing on the dais behind their chairs. "Fíli, consider your lessons. What would you do?"

Fíli looked startled to be asked, but he regained his poise and confidence quickly enough. Ondolissë craned her neck forward, certain that he would have noticed her presence here and wanting to give him her support.

"We cannot do nothing," Fíli began, "or they will grow bolder and start to work against us more openly. We know that war will come again one day, but I know that all of us would rather put that day off as long as we possibly can. We have to show King Legolas that we know that he isn't dealing fairly with our people. We need to let him know that he is being watched, and that we are prepared to do something about it.

He paused, considering further. "I know that Dwalin has been training our new Dragon Guard," he said. Others in the hall were quick to grasp his meaning, and murmurs of agreement arose. Ondolissë had seen their new elite sparring for herself, and she remembered enough of war from her previous life to know they were very able fighters. Most of them had come from the Iron Hills and had gained their experience in orcish raids.

"A fine suggestion Fíli," Thorin said, and Fíli glowed under the praise. "We shall ask Dwalin to assemble a contingent immediately. He shall go and have words with _King_ Legolas, without fear that our messenger should go 'missing'."

As others left to carry these commands and the next petitioner stepped forward, Ondolissë made her way silently from the hall a well. She had something to think about.

* * *

 _Autumn 2947_

Kulkodar looked concerned when she presented her idea to him.

"It's too dangerous," he said. "I managed to destroy all of those dragon-bows the elves brought with them, but that doesn't mean they don't have more somewhere. And you're still young. Not yet full grown. Your armour hasn't had a chance to become thick and strong, or to incorporate the hard gems of the Hoard."

"I know all of that," Ondolissë replied. "I have considered the risks, but I want to go anyway."

Bilbo looked all the more uneasy. "It isn't really me that you should be asking," he said. "Smaug is your, well, guardian is I suppose the best way to put it, rather than myself."

"He is my sibling," Ondolissë corrected him. "And I owe you both an equal debt for singing me back into the world. Your words carry equal weight. And it is you who are King under the Mountain here, you and your dwarf. This armed embassy is sent under your authority."

The hobbit sighed. "I don't want to say that you can't go. I don't know that I have the right. But Ondolissë, if Smaug hears that I've said you can go haring off into the midst of an army of elves, even the Ring won't save me."

"I have made up my mind. I am very firm about this," Ondolissë said. Kulkodar looked as though he was about to protest again, but then stopped, head tilted on one side as he listened to a quiet whisper that only he could hear. "What does the One say?" she asked, curiously.

"It has... an idea." Kulkodar said, cautiously. "It sounds an interesting one, but I think it's one that needs talked over with more than just the two of us."

"Who do we need?"

"I think... Thorin, Smaug and Khamûl."

Ondolissë nodded. "Then we shall find them with all haste. You certainly have me intrigued."

Within the hour they had gathered their small council in the Hoard-Hall, which Smaug had returned to now with no intention of ever leaving it any time soon. He was lazing half-buried in the gold which lay piled meters deep like a scree slope, ascending up into darkness.

"It seems you have yet another proposal of interest," Smaug said, the tip of his tail flicking in curiosity. He smiled down at the halfling without teeth. "Or rather, the Ring does. And may I guess by those you have called here that it involves smith-craft?"

"You guess correctly," Kulkodar replied. "I suppose I should start by explaining that this all came about because Ondolissë asked me if she could accompany Dwalin and the others to Eryn Lasgalen."

"And you said no of course," Smaug said, glaring at her.

"I didn't say anything either way," Kulkodar said. "Although I said you wouldn't like it."

"It _would_ be unwise," Khamûl said, offering his own opinion. "The Uruloki are our greatest weapon for the war that is to come. Thus far no others know of them. We cannot allow even the suspicion of your existence before we are ready."

"I am not a dead slave, to be ordered about by you," Ondolissë hissed at him, though she regretted the unkindness of her words immediately afterwards.

Thorin spoke before Khamûl could. "And I suppose at some point you might have seen fit to ask me _my_ permission," he said. "Is it not by my order that Dwalin goes at all?"

"This is why it's better we have you all here to discuss it," Kulkodar said, forestalling the quickly developing argument. "The One has been talking to me about ring-craft. Forging."

"Has it now?" Smaug asked, with a dangerous politeness.

"I know what you're thinking, and I hope you all know me better than that," Kulkodar said. "I've accepted the Nazgûl's service, but that doesn't mean I want any more of them. I don't want slaves, and I've told the Ring that in the past. It claims those who would take up a ring I helped make wouldn't necessarily have to be."

"A curious idea," Ondolissë said. "But the whole Ring business was after my first death. I don't know quite what advantage it would be, to make more of them."

"It is not only control of our actions that the Nine yield," Khamûl said. "They allow communication, whatever the distance. They act as foci to amplify our powers. They bind us together, so that we are stronger as one song than apart. Not that the forging of them is any small task."

"And your Ring suggested to you, what?" Thorin asked. "That you create more rings for all of these newborn dragons?"

"That was rather the long and short of it," Bilbo admitted. "Although for the actual forging, I would say you know more about it than I do."

"So if you can watch me because I am wearing a ring, I won't really be in any danger," Ondolissë pointed out, in what seemed to her to be a quite reasonable fashion. "If anything goes wrong, you will know at once and you can come rescue me."

"Or avenge you," Smaug said, a clear warning. Still, he was not really any older than her in the metaphysical sense, so she didn't see much need to listen other than with a vague kind of respect one ought to give their self-singer. Respect was all very well, but it wasn't going to stop her flying her own path.

"You think much of me," Thorin was saying, "if you believe I can forge rings of power. I know runes suitable for use in smith-craft, but rings were always elvish work, not that of dwarves."

"The One has the knowledge, and you have the experience," Bilbo replied. "All we need is to put them together. I have every faith in you."

"We shall see," Thorin said, sounding unconvinced, but at the same time secretly pleased. "Although I cannot say you will be very impressed by the first of my efforts. I have no doubt that this is a craft which will take a great deal of practise, more than most things I have learned in my years."

"Then it is decided," Ondolissë said. "You shall make my ring first, or at least something which will suffice for our needs, and then I will go with Dwalin to Mirkwood."

"It seems I cannot stop you," Smaug sneered. "So go with luck and don't get shot."

* * *

The first Tauriel heard of the newest calamity was the message sent by one of the Forest Guard on watch at the borders of the forest. It was written in the code she was still so familiar with, but even after parsing it out, it had been put down in some haste and was therefore not quite so clear as it might have been. But one thing was certain – a large party of dwarves was heading their way, and they were armed. Not an army by any means, and it was far too soon for that to have even been possible, but nothing good either. She went immediately to her King.

"I suspected something like this," Legolas said when she told him the news, eyes fever-bright, although the last effects of _that_ grievous illness had at least left him now. The last physical effects – the memories still haunted him, as they haunted her. "We cannot allow them to see our preparations. Have the great-bows moved out into hiding places in the forest. Make sure our people who are training here are well out of sight, with excuses for their presence well prepared if necessary. We cannot forget that damn dragon still lives."

"It shall be done as you command," Tauriel said. She hesitated in describing the next part of the report to him. "The Guard also reported that she saw a winged shape in the sky overhead," she said finally. Legolas' eyes narrowed. She saw the fingers of his hand go white gripping the smooth wood of the throne.

"I dream of it sometimes," he said quietly. So quietly that only her elven hearing allowed her to pick it up. It would have been inaudible to a Man. "The Greenwood burning. Dragon-fire. I remember my father, I remember what he told me about them, how it haunted him, how even as a child he would never let me touch his bare skin for fear I would feel through the glamour..."

Tauriel kept silent – what could she possibly say? There were enough of their people who had that much in common with the late King, and most of them were still in the infirmary even now. Those who were well enough to walk were rarely seen. Weaving a glamour was not such quick work, and they were hard to look upon. Hard to bear the pity and instinctive revulsion in others' eyes, she was sure, and even harder to look in the harsh silver of a mirror. Some had already faded away, in the way of elves with broken spirits.

"So Smaug has left the mountain," Legolas said, no longer speaking just to himself. "I had hoped the wounds we dealt his wings would have kept him grounded longer." He had a look of fear and utter determination. "We must have faith that they are only here to talk for now, even if it is the kind of talking that is but veiled threat. Well, who would expect anything different from Evil? Still, it means we must only be all the more careful. The foul wyrm is a weapon we cannot let them use."

"I understand, my King," Tauriel replied. The same fear was in her. They would fight, they would strike back, but not now, not yet. The time would come, but until that day both patience and humility would be required. It was not the way of the elves to abandon all pride and dignity and bow to the wishes of dark and malevolent things, but nor did they spill their own blood carelessly.

Legolas dismissed her with a nod and a gesture, and she went to make the necessary preparations. It did not take long. They were now in a state of almost constant readiness, knowing how well those who followed the Enemy's ways loved tricks and strikes that could not be anticipated. For the rest of the day Eryn Lasgalen was a hive of activity, and then it was still, and quiet, and with plenty of time to spare before the dwarves and the dragon arrived.

The band of dwarves came marching up the Forest Road shining in the sun. They were armed and armoured, with axes slung over their shoulders, and their faces made blank masks by their covering helms. Tauriel was at the gate waiting for them, and her eyes went quickly to the skies, searching with a hawk's keenness. There. A dark shape obscured by the sun, but she could make out the form of wings and tail well enough. Her fingers itched to nock an arrow to her bow. But as the shape swooped lower, confusion took over. It was not sized as she had expected, so that whilst she had still though it far off, it suddenly resolved before her eyes as just skimming above the tops of the trees, darting over the river like a swallow and coming to light on the overlook before the gates, finding handholds for balance on the carved pillars, the claws of its feet scoring the stone.

It was not Smaug.

It was a dragon, certainly, and a fire-drake at that, but it was very small compared to the monster that had swept over their lines at the Battle of Erebor. That still left it larger than any horse, its head sitting at her height again above her, dappled with grey scales and eyes green like witch-fire. But how could it be here, how could it even exist? All the other fire-drakes save Smaug had been killed long ago, and they were in any case not the sort of creatures that could breed any more than Balrogs or Istari.

"Greetings," the dragon said, as the dwarvish contingent marched over the bridge to join them. "I am Ondolissë, currently of Erebor."

"Tauriel, Commander of the Forest Guard," she replied, not letting her surprise show. Commander of more than that besides, but such secrets must at all costs be kept from the creatures now darkening their doors.

"Yes, I know of your name," the dragon was saying. "I am told you spoke wisely of caution in the days before the Battle. I am glad to see someone reasonable sent to greet us; I think that is a good sign."

Tauriel had no wish to be labelled reasonable by a wyrm, but if whatever reputation she had amongst their enemies enticed them to let down their guard, then by all means she would have them think whatever they would of her. "It's a pity we didn't know to expect you," she said, rather than the more impetuous words that would have sprung first to her tongue if she had let her anger get the better of her. "Otherwise your welcome would have been warmer. Of course we had some word of you, but not from you yourselves. We might have had you as simple travellers."

Of course no-one would ever have mistaken such an armed band for any such thing, and it was probably too much to expect that such foul beings would feel any shame in the manner of their coming, as silent as ambushers. The dragon's eyes narrowed slightly though at her words, as though they held some different meaning to them.

One of the dwarves – a commander of some sort by the ornamentation of his armour – came forward, stepping around the trailing edge of the wyrm's wing. As he pulled the helmet from his head, Tauriel realised she recognised him. It was one of Thorin's Company, one of that group who had been found wandering in the forest like a band of thieves. She was not surprised to see him here. Natural, that they had been made Lieutenants now that the Evil they served had expanded his power.

"It's travellers we're here to speak about," he said, with a typical dwarvish sneer. "And not with a Commander either. It's your King we'd have words with."

Anger did spur her tongue then. "And if I were to bar the gate and refuse?" she snapped.

The dwarf looked meaningfully at the dragon. "I don't think that would be wise, now would it lass?"

She managed at least to hold back the shiver of fear. It had been dry of late, without even the hint of rain. Perfect weather for fire.

"Be welcome in our halls then Master Dwarf," she said, with a sharp and perfunctory bow. "And speak whatever threats you have come here to deliver."

* * *

His hand – or rather, the emptiness that had taken the place of it – pained him at odd times. Phantom aches, independent of any outside source or provocation. Even Dorwinion wine did little to numb it, and since neither did it numb anything else he might wish to be rid of in the long hours of the night, he had long since abandoned it. The scent only served to remind him of his father.

Many things reminded Legolas of his father. It seemed impossible to escape the memories of him. Every corridor where once they had walked together held the echoes of his footsteps, every room that had once held him Legolas entered half-expecting to see him there, every tiny detail of kingship was made alien by grief because Thranduil his father was gone, and everything was changed by his lack. Now Legolas Thranduillion sat atop a throne that he had hoped never to take and tried his best to do as his father might have wished.

What his father would have wished here he had little need to guess. Thranduil had been wise to the false and treacherous nature of the Naugrim, to the evil that lurked in the heart of every one of them. So it had been in Doriath all those years ago, when they had turned against Ilúvatar's true children, and so it was now. Legolas clenched his fist upon the arm of his father's throne and choked down seething anger at the sight of the creatures that now profaned his halls.

The Naugrim perhaps he _could_ have borne, for his Kingdom's sake, but the dragon... The very unholy Fire of Morgoth, greedy and cunning, in the halls of Eryn Lasgalen, in the Greenwood.

With a twitch of his finger, if he so chose, he could have a hundred archers in here with bows drawn ready to skewer this so-called delegation where they stood. The eyes of the Woodland Guard were keen, keen enough to hit the gaps between even the well-crafted plates of Naugrim armour, keen enough to target the eyes and tender places of a wyrm. It was a very tempting thought. They had not dealt near enough death on the slopes of Erebor to pay back their enemy for his father's murder, not to mention the murder of half the King's-Guard. He met Tauriel's eyes as she approached at the head of the party and saw his own righteous anger reflected back at him.

The leash of common sense stopped him though. A ruler was always in need of good sense, Thranduil had always told him that. He could not allow himself to be mastered by his passions to the point that he forgot what was good for his people. And to kill this little wyrm, these Naugrim, would be to invite the disaster that his father had feared when he turned away from Erebor over two hundred years ago. The Greenwood would burn under Smaug's rage. And worse than the dragon, the creature that now bore Sauron's Ring would sunder these halls and bury their legacy beneath the earth.

Legolas forced himself to be calm. "Commander Tauriel," he said, an invitation for her to begin the formalities.

"My King," she replied, bowing. "I bring before you Dwalin, Captain of the Dragon Guard of Erebor, and Ondolissë," she gestured to the wyrm who was perched on the walkway like a lizard on top of a fence. He regarded it with disgust. Grey-mottled like stone, it had the gangly build of youth, its wings too large for it almost. It sat with its talons wrapped around the carved wood of the walkway to keep its balance. There was a dull glint of metal banding one of them. He looked closer.

It was a ring. But the question was of what kind? It was conceivable – though a fearful though – that Sauron's Ring might have given up the secrets of forging lesser rings to the Naugrim. Rings to make slaves of their bearers. What better slave than a dragon! Though that too was in itself a question that required an answer. How did this wyrm come to be? Had Smaug not been in truth the last of his kind? Had Mithrandir been mistaken in that? Worse, if there was one more, might there be others?

"We are pleased to meet you," the wyrm said, bobbing its head on its long neck in what might be taken for an attempt at a bow. "Although we have not come for pleasure's sake."

"I had not thought for a moment that you had," Legolas replied. "Am I to supposed to ignore that you have come here armed and armoured as for war?"

"Do _you_ forget that it was _you_ who marched against us?" the Naugrim named Dwalin said.

"Not without cause," Legolas snapped.

"Aye, after you captured our King and left the rest of us for the spiders!"

"What friend Dwalin means," the wyrm interrupted, "is that we came with caution for our own safety, that is all. We do not mean for there to be violence. At least, _we_ shall not offer any."

"And why then, precisely, did you come?" Legolas asked.

"We need to have words about our treaty," the Naugrim said.

"Why?" Legolas could think of no reason they should be displeased; nothing had been done to break the terms that had been agreed.

"We've had troubling news from our kinsfolk travelling through your forest," the Naugrim said. "You promised safe passage. They aren't getting it. You aren't holding up your end of the bargain."

"Do we need to hold the hands of every dwarf that makes their stumbling way through our lands now?" Legolas asked with a sneer.

"Aye, like you held our hands? It was spiders the last time and now it is spiders again."

Ah. Now he began to understand their quarrel. It was true that with the effort of preparing for the war which was to come they had not sent out the patrols against Ungoliant's spawn that they once had. The spider's numbers had been much reduced when Dol Guldur fell to the White Council, so that elves were little bothered by them. There had been reports that those numbers were increasing once again, and that they preyed on travellers upon the road, but Legolas had promised Naugrim caravans safety only from himself, not from every small peril that they might come across.

"Are you not dwarves?" he asked them. "Are you unable to defend yourselves? _I_ have not seen as much from your people."

"Aye, we are strong and tough enough. But not our children. There are young dwarflings travelling the roads of your kingdom! Easy prey for spiders! You know that though. Easy for you to sit and watch their attacks and gloat that they do your work for you!"

Legolas narrowed his eyes. It did not sit well with him that he was accused of letting children die. Naugrim they might be, but Elves were not without honour and mercy even to wretches and the unwanted. No, such had never been his intent, but it was true that intent was not perfect. Perhaps there was some little truth in the Naugrim's words.

"What would you have me do?" he asked.

"Hunt down the spiders of course!" the Naugrim replied. "Honour the spirit of your words as you ought, rather than hiding behind mealy-mouthed technicalities."

"And we shall go with you," the wyrm added, although he noted it was to the surprise of its companions. "I have never seen such a spider before," it explained. "Not to mention that we must of course be sure that the roads _have_ been made safe."

"As you will," Legolas said. Of the demands that could have been made, this was at least easier to bear than some, although he wondered that the dark power that pulled their strings could not simply order the spiders away. Ah well, the internecine squabbles of fell beings were not his concern unless they spilt over, and better evil shed evil blood than that of his own people.

"We shall ride out at noontime tomorrow."

* * *

 _Spring, 2950_

One of the Wizards, the Istari, had come to Imladris. Of course many important people came to speak to his Ada – although Estel ought really to be old enough now not to call him that anymore. He was nineteen, a mere year off from coming of age, and he had grown almost as tall as any of Lord Elrond's warriors, although not as graceful. No, he seemed to be made up mostly of arms and legs, and arms and legs that did not entirely do what he wanted when he wasn't concentrating on them. Ada – Lord Elrond – had told him that this was the way of Men as they grew, and that it was merely a stage that would pass, but if so it was something he very much disliked about being a Man. He could not imagine that Glorfindel – who had once slain a _Balrog_ – or even Elladan and Elrohir had ever been so very clumsy when _they_ were young.

In any case, the wizard who had come to speak to Lord Elrond was Saruman the White, and this was far from his first visit. In the past few years, he had come perhaps once every year and met with his Ada in secret council. No-one else knew what they talked about, or if they did, they did not wish to speak of it. But Estel did sometimes suspect some people knew more than they were letting on, by some of the soft and knowing smiles he got when he asked about it. This year though, this year all of that would change. Estel would change it.

Although his lessons as one of the Dúnedain had a fallen by the wayside after the long trip that Elrond had taken to the other side of the Misty Mountains, Estel had eventually managed to persuade him that they would be valuable. So it was that he learnt to move silently and with great stealth, with the feet of a cat and less noise than the lightest breeze. Now he was going to practise those skills, and finally hear what the White Wizard wanted with his Ada.

Saruman and Lord Elrond usually met in a room open to the air atop the cliffs looking out over the valley. Either cunning spells or the craftwork of pillars and vaults prevented sound from travelling, and what little did was drowned out by the crashing waterfalls that fell from round about. Estel had chosen the more treacherous route to reach a place where he might hear them, scaling the cliff itself from a balcony below, because he knew how keen were the eyes of wizards. If he had taken the safe route over the rooftops, that sharp sight would have picked him out easily. This way there was no chance of him being seen.

The rocks were slippery with water sprayed from the falls, but he made his slow way up with great care. He had made his move as soon as he saw Lindir leaving his Ada's hall to request Saruman's presence. Still, by the time he was high enough to hear the murmur of voices, their meeting must have been well underway.

"He progresses admirably, of course," Lord Elrond was saying. "I could not wish him to be a more faithful student."

"You have not said as much in earlier years," Saruman replied, with what Estel though was a hint of humour. "The tales you told of his, what did you call them... 'escapades'?"

Estel realised with a jolt that they were talking about him.

"He was a child," his Ada said dismissively. "Perhaps I had forgotten the nature of children since the twins were grown. But even then he was diligent. His father was a good man, and he shall be too."

"Good enough?" Saruman asked. "This is no simple rag-tag band of wanderers in the wilderness he must lead. No, he must be appropriately moulded for our purposes, or else everything might be lost."

The wizard spoke about him as if he were a thing! A tool, and nothing more. Estel found a glow of anger flare into being in his heart. Surely his Ada would correct Saruman, temper the harshness of his words?

"He is the blood of Isildur," his Ada said, and Estel could not help the gasp that escaped him. Immediately he stilled, clasping himself close in to the cliff face, but there was no reaction from above. He had not been heard. "A bloodline capable of great deeds, and also fell ones. And yet I have no doubt that Aragorn will prove as faithful a King of Gondor as we could wish."

It seemed as though Estel's ears were filled with ringing, ringing that drowned out all words from above as though the crashing waters were sweeping over him in a flood. A faithful King of Gondor? That was what all this was about? That was what his Ada meant him to be? Why not tell him? Why keep all of this so secret? What kind of King did Ada mean him to be, that he and this wizard talked about him like he was some kind of puppet! Faithful to what, to _them_? For putting him on the throne was he expected to do just what they wished without question?

His knuckles were white with the effort of gripping cold stone. Slowly and painfully he managed to loosen them enough to work the stiffness out of them, and began his careful descent. His thoughts were whirling around inside his head. He felt betrayed, more than anything else, betrayed that all this had been kept from him. Even his name, even that was a lie! And his mother! She must have known, she must have agreed to this, and that hurt if anything the most of all.

Estel – hope – was false. There was no hope here, at least not for him. Hope for the elf he had called Ada, that he do what was wanted of him. And Aragorn, a name he had never heard before now – it was meaningless to him.

No, he would have a new name. A name he gave himself. And he would not stay here to take it. He found he had already made up his mind. He was leaving. He would take his bow and his blade and the clothes on his back and nothing more. He was a Ranger, if that was all that was left to him, and he would make his own way.


	4. Chapter 4

Fending for himself in the wilds was no unfamiliar task for the young man who had now adopted the use-name of Strider – a common Dúnedain pseudonym. He had journeyed out into forest and plains many times during his training, to learn the craft of the Rangers, of tracking, hunting, foraging. He knew every hiding place, cave and shelter for miles around Imladris. He knew where deer and rabbits could be found, what berries were poisons and which made for good eating. He knew how to shoot a bow, how to skin and prepare his meat, how to start a fire in damp and dry. In fact, all of this was so familiar to him that at first it did not feel as though he had run away from home at all, only as if this was just another simple adventure in the wilderness.

That feeling quickly faded. Strider hadn't given much thought to what he would do once he left, but he realised soon enough that he wouldn't be able to remain in the area that he knew. On the very second day he was nearly surprised by a patrol of Lord Elrond's horsemen as he lay by one of the clear swift streams that coursed down from the hills above Imladris, drinking and washing his face. He heard the surprisingly quiet hooves of the elvish steeds only moments before they burst out from the treeline along the deer-track, moments enough for him to worm his way into a stand of reeds, mud squishing cold and uncomfortable through his soft, fingerless wool gloves and the knees of his trews. After that he knew to be more wary, but if Lord Elrond had not called his mother and the Dúnedain to the search already, he would soon. They knew the land even better than he did. He could not stay.

So it was that Strider struck out south-west along the path of the Loudwater River, into a land that had once been named Rhudaur, skirting the Trollshaws that bordered the Great East Road northwards. It was not a land that had seen Men other than the Dúnedain for many long years. Sometimes he came across the abandoned ruins of old towns and villages, only ragged stone now, overgrown with greenery, home now solely to animals and birds. Further south, he knew, in Eregion, there were people; farmers, traders, some little prosperity. The same to the west, until you hit the fertile land of the Shire, which his mother had spoken of fondly. Strider knew the lands of the North just as well as he did those of the South, even if he had come by the knowledge in less coherent fashion than that of his tutors' lessons.

He knew of its dangers too. Rhudaur had its bears, which he avoided, and its packs of wolves, which were well fed enough to ignore him for the most part, or at least not to make a point of hunting him down. But it also had wargs. Strider had heard about these, of course, but Elrond had kept his own lands free of such creatures, hunting them down if ever they were so bold as to stray across the wider borders of Imladris. He had never seen one with his own eyes. That changed swiftly one night, when an alien howl lifted up under the light of the moon, waking him from his slumber under the well-needled branches of a lone pine. He knew enough not to linger where he was, but immediately grasped the nearest bough and pulled himself upwards into the tree. He was just in time.

A huge dark shape burst through the trailing curtain of branches and leapt for him, white teeth snapping in a spray of saliva, claws scrabbling against the trunk. Its strength propelled it upwards, but not quite far enough. It fell back, snarling, and circled, looking for a better spot to make the attempt.

For a moment Strider was frozen with shock, with the sudden violence. He could only stare, and feel the cold grip of treacherous fear numb his limbs and wits. Then he remembered himself. Remembered what he had been taught. The bow, as the sword, had been drilled into him from an early age, and though he had never been as good as any elf who had practised for more years than even Dúnedain lived, his instructors had been satisfied enough to make him think he wasn't all that terrible. He could hit what he aimed for at least, if it wasn't moving too fast, and he wasn't asked to aim for any of the tricky bits like the eyes or the great vessels. He unslung his bow from his back and retrieved its string from the protection of its waxed leather wrapping. It was awkward to put the bow under enough tension to string it surrounded by branches, but he managed it in the end by bracing it against the trunk. Then he nocked an arrow and took careful aim.

The warg saw what he was doing. If he had needed any proof of the creature's intelligence, the look of contempt it wore would have been enough. Clearly it thought little of the skills of Men when it came to archery. Strider sighted, pulled back, breathed out, and let fly.

The warg yelped as it was dealt the mortal wound. It was not the quick death it might have been had Strider been an elf, but it had been a fatal blow all the same. Only, as it panted out its last, heaving, gurgling breaths through lungs filling with blood, he found himself feeling guilty, though there was little reason for it. It had been a creature with a brain, not an animal that had no thought of the future or what might have been, and that would at least have served to fill his belly. He wished he had been able to do a better job than this prolonged, painful demise. It would have been... better.

Not that he felt too bad. It had been trying to kill him. It was only... it had been the first thinking creature he had killed.

It would have been no comfort to know how much worse killing his first man would make him feel.

Strider crossed out of Rhudaur at one of the old forgotten fords on the Hoarwell river, now far from any road known to most Men. The Dúnedain knew of the ford, because the elves with their long lives remembered when this had been the great Kingdom of the North, Arnor, Gondor's shining twin. Strider had learnt his history well, as he had been intended to. Now he was almost ashamed to have been such a good pupil. Still, another of his lessons had been in how a little knowledge could go a long way in the halls of power, and though he had no intention of going near any such place, he thought himself the better for the knowing anyway.

He had now come to more settled land in the triangle between the Great East Road to the north, the river behind him, and the Greenway ahead to the west. The land became more open, the forests bearing the mark of Men's work in cutting, clearing and hunting, deer-tracks becoming true paths and small roads. The soil here was good enough for farming, and Strider began to find himself skirting tilled fields and paddocks with high strong fences. After a few more days, upon cresting the rise of a hill he came across his first true village since leaving Imladris. He found himself hesitating looking down upon the small, quiet cluster of houses, simple and squat compared to the buildings of the elves, unsure of himself. He knew little of any people that were not the Dúnedain. Although his kinsfolk spoke often enough to those they protected, Strider had not been allowed to be present for any of it. Would they be welcoming of strangers?

Whether they were or not, skulking like a bandit or a thief would certainly do him no favours. He tried to make himself appear more presentable, as much as was possible for a Ranger who had been travelling wild lands for a week, then he started down the slope towards the hamlet.

It was likely that someone had spotted him early on, but one traveller alone was evidently of little concern, for no-one came out to greet him or turn him away. In fact he saw little sign of life aside from hearth-fire smoke until he was within shouting distance of the first house. Then he caught sight of a little girl watching him from behind a palisade that caged a somewhat mangy-looking cow. As soon as she realised she'd been seen, she gigged and ran away, disappearing around the corner of the house. Moments later, a stolid looking couple came towards him, both in simple clothes, with curious, careful expressions.

"Greetings friends," Strider called to them, making sure his empty hands were easily seen in front of him. He was rather aware of the fact that he was armed with both sword and bow, and they bore no trace of a weapon. He reached up slowly and pushed back his hood so they could better see his face.

"Ach, you're naught but a boy!" the man exclaimed with a look of surprise. "Surely you haven't been travelling by yourself lad? Where's your father?"

Strider found himself flushing a little, partly embarrassment, and partly anger. "I am of age next year," he said coolly, "and my father is dead."

That much made the man look ashamed. "I'm sorry to hear that lad," he said. "Here, you look like you've been travelling a long while, and it's clear you don't mean us no harm. Why don't you come inside for a meal? We've little enough, but enough to spare."

"I thank you for your hospitality," he replied, and followed them inside.

The sparseness of the place was surprising. Back in Imladris, there was nothing that had not been crafted to be beautiful as well as useful. It was certainly true enough that Strider had seen buildings which were plain and unadorned when he travelled on his short trips with the Dúnedain, but he had thought that only because these were forest shacks rather than permanent dwellings. But perhaps it was in fact simply the Mannish style.

"I am Isolt," the woman told him, motioning him to a bench seat by a low, rough table. "And this is Harvald. And our daughter, Ase." Strider nodded, watching her quick and sure movements around the single small room, uncovering carved wooden plates, bowls and cups from cunningly hidden places. Then he realised he was meant to make some reply, and hesitated.

"I travel under the name Strider," he said. "Any other name I might claim would be... complicated."

He saw his hosts exchange glances, but he did not know the meaning concealed in them. Still, they did not press the subject. Soon a mug of small beer had been put in front of him, along with a bowl of stew, a hunk of dark, heavy bread, and a small piece of cheese. He knew enough of manners shared between both Elves and Men to wait until the others were seated and served also before beginning to eat. It was good fare, after too much of meat and hard biscuit in the last weeks.

He had felt some worry that Harvald and Isolt would ask him the sort of questions he would find it difficult to answer, but instead they asked about his travels; the conditions, the dangers, what fierce and wild things lurked in wait for the unwary. That much he certainly did not mind talking about. They were surprised to hear that he had come from the east, but Strider assured them of the skills that kept him safe and his ability to look after himself.

"Still, no boy ought to have to face such wild beasts," Harvald said, shaking his head. The girl Ase stared at him wide-eyed from the other side of the table. She was very quiet, and Strider did not know enough of children to say whether this was normal. "And if you mean to keep westwards as you say, that's not the only danger you'll be running into."

"What do you mean?"

"Bandits," Isolt told him. "Robbers have plagued the road recently. The rumours say that once they would have been too scared of the Rangers to come so close to their territory – not that Rangers are more than tall tales anyway, _I've_ not ever seen nor heard of a real one. But whether real or not, seems Rangers have other business to keep them occupied other than patrolling the highways."

Strider felt a rush of surprise, and then of shame. What if it was because of him? It could be. His mother would have called everyone she could to look for him, and he supposed he could hardly blame her. It wasn't that he doubted her love for him, only that he couldn't be sure how much she had known about Elrond's plans for him. Whether she had given him into his care so he could be raised to be the kind of puppet-king they wanted, or for the reason he had always previously been told; to keep him safe. But it was unpleasant to think that because of her search innocent people like these villagers might be in more danger.

He listened carefully as his hosts filled him in on all they knew about the situation, and felt the hollow in his belly grow. The Rangers were all of his old life he still respected, whose ideals he wanted to live up to. He had a responsibility, as one of them, as a son of the Dúnedain. He just wasn't quite sure what exactly he might be able to do to make it right.

He still didn't know by the next morning when he set off again, but that made him no less determined.

Dagmar Caravan-Mistress did not remember when the boy had first joined them. She hadn't thought much of it at the time. He had looked suspicious, but then who didn't on this road? Once you got south of the Brandywine River that was it for decent civilisation until Rohan, and if only the Blue Mountain dwarves didn't make such pretty – and more importantly valuable – things no merchant would think the trip worth it. One more thin, ragged man with a dirty hooded cape concealing his face and an old sword at his hip, looking for the protection of travelling with a group, was little to take note of. He hadn't spoken much, but he had a bow and he had hunted with it, which was more than enough to earn his keep.

Now though she was wishing she had asked a few more questions.

The bandit leader, a thug who looked as though maybe he had a touch of orc way back in his bloodline, looked just as bemused as she felt. "What are you playing at, you fool?" he said. "There's a lot more of us then there are of you, and to be honest, there's not much profit to be made in killing those that think they're heroes. Dead bodies don't make no-one any money."

"And I told you, this stops," the man said. He still had his hood up, but his voice sounded younger than she'd thought, now Dagmar actually had a chance to hear it properly. The sword was no old relic either, but shining sharp steel, well oiled and honed. And he held it like he knew how to use it.

The bandit sighed. She could see him thinking it over in his head. The stranger could probably get a few good hits in, maybe wound some of his men before they took him down, and there was no kind of reliable healer out here, or at least none that would treat someone with suspiciously sword-inflicted wounds. On the other hand, he didn't seem the kind of person much made for negotiating.

"No," he said after a moment. "No, I think we will kill you."

The bandits moved quickly. They had no weapons quite as nice as the young man's, but they had wicked-looking axes and spiked bucklers, and odds and ends of armour, and they were clearly no strangers to violence. And yet when the ragged stranger leapt into the fight against them, all of a sudden they seemed as clumsy as children playing with sticks. Dagmar watched with wonder and not a little fear as the young man dodged and parried axe-swings, fending off four men at once with such skill that they got in the way of the others trying to come for him. Then with a flash of steel and a sudden spray of blood, one of the thieves was on the ground with a hand clamped over his throat and his jerkin rapidly turning red.

In the moment of stunned silence that followed, Dagmar realised that no-one was watching her own caravan guards any more. She kicked the ankle of the man standing beside her, who still had his belt-knife even if his halberd had been confiscated and motioned to the half-turned back of the bandit who had been the one to take it. He got her meaning quickly enough.

It was over not long after. The bandits saw which way things were going, and the profit-cost analysis worked itself out rapidly in their heads. They took off, leaving their dead behind along with those too wounded to walk, who would be becoming dead sooner rather than later. The young man watched them go, a sheen of blood clinging to the edge of his blade. His hood had fallen back during the fight. His hair was an unwashed tangle clumped into a horse's-tail at the back of his neck.

Then he turned his head, and in the pale, shaking, shocked expression of his face Dagmar saw just how young he really was.

 _Summer 2950_

Galadriel was ill at ease. She had been so ever since the fortress and the mountain, since dragon-fire and ancient evil thrust into the light. Had that year been merely a year of Sauron she would have been less discomforted; he was an old foe but familiar in his age and in his deeds. She knew him and the manner of his thoughts. But the new evil that had come into the world she did not know. It distracted with its smallness and was all the greater danger for it. It had powers she in all her years had never seen and had no knowledge of. It was nothing that had come out of the West, but something that seemed to have arisen here in the centre of the world unnoticed by any of the great and wise.

Lothlórien was preparing for what was to come, as much as any of the realms of her kin. Even Lord Círdan, who concerned himself little with affairs beyond his own lands, she had convinced to turn his thoughts to war. It was a future lying heavy on the present. Her mirror showed her many things, water blessed by Nenya's power, visions of fire and ruin, and dominion over all lands beneath the sun and moon. Shadow and wings against a sky turned black with rising smoke. She had heard from Legolas Thranduillion that their enemy had found another of the Urúloki, or in a suspicion she had not yet chosen to share, perhaps had brought it forth out of the silence of a former death. If so there might be others, but she had been unable to divine the number or nature of the wyrms.

There had been a plan. The White Council had agreed on it together, and she had thought it wise enough at the time for all that it relied so much on the strength of Men. Now though, their King-to-be had disappeared entirely, an event coinciding suspiciously with a visit of Curunír the White to Imladris. Galadriel did not trust Curunír in the way that she trusted Olórin. His mind was a maze that concealed much. Yet it would be of no gain to him for the child Estel to be lost to them.

She walked the star-lit paths of Caras Galadhon, feeling the feather-light press of the grass beneath her feet, the wash of Elbereth's light in the arc of the sky overhead. She was not the only one to be awake at this late hour. Lamp-light flickered in branches above, and her keen ears picked out the murmur of voices in speech or song that her mind then put faces to with easy touches against their own.

In a clearing ahead, a more familiar mind than most moved.

Her grand-daughter was dancing a sword-dance. A slender elven blade flickered in the dark as she moved between shadow and light. Galadriel watched her for long moments, considering her form. Arwen had not been studying the ways of war for very long, but the same was true of many of those who had only taken up arms when they heard of the new darkness that had come. She had a natural talent for it, which made up for some of the experience she lacked, although not enough that she would be comfortable to let her daughter's child go unsupported into danger or the thick of battle.

"Hello grandmother," Arwen said, once she had finished, and sheathed her sword once more. She was a very little out of breath, and her hair had begun to escape from the braid she had tied it into.

"You work harder than you need to," Galadriel told her gently. "The danger is yet far off." She did not say that with every year they let it lie, their enemy grew stronger. If it did so, then so did they, and she must be confident that theirs grew faster.

"I should not have been content to let my brothers become warriors without me," Arwen replied, starting to unwind her braid back into a fall of dark hair. "It might have suited them more, but now I will not be able to do as much as they will." She was frowning.

"The time of darkness seemed long past. We did not yet know Sauron lingered in Dol Guldur, nor that the One Ring might arise again after so many centuries lost." Galadriel did not wish her grand-daughter to lay blame where none ought rest.

"My father has never been happy that it was not destroyed when it should have been," Arwen said. "He has always been cautious about the dangers of the world, but I paid less attention than I should have. Now I have much lost time to make up for."

"And so you practise in the dark."

"Sleep had deserted me."

Galadriel inclined her head in amusement, since she could hardly make any reply to that when the very same was true of herself.

"Is it because of Estel?" Arwen asked. "I know he was important, although I don't remember very much of him. Just a very little child getting underfoot when I left Imladris to visit you here."

"The Dúnedain will find him, or your brothers will. And perhaps it will have been good for him to see more of the world and those who must live in it. A King must know those he rules, and he will have seen little of Men in Imladris."

"And if they don't find him in time?" Arwen asked. She had begun to braid her hair up again. Galadriel felt the direction her thoughts were tracing.

"You wish to seek him yourself."

"He is not the only one who needs experience," Arwen replied. "You wanted me to stay here these past years to keep me safe I know, but I've learned enough now to be in no danger on the road. And I feel... that I need to travel."

"Some are not meant to stay in one land all their lives," Galadriel said. "To some is given the urge to wander. If this is in your heart, know that I have faith in you. If you wish to leave, go with my blessing."

"Thank you grandmother." Arwen bowed to her, hand over heart. "I will prove worthy of your trust."

"That I do not doubt." Already she could feel the slender threads of the future shiver as they changed in the most subtle ways. "In the morning, you will be outfitted for your journey. Go forth and learn of the lands of Men."

 _Autumn 2951_

Clouds were always gathered over Mordor now. Ecthelion saw them each morning from the window of his room, staring out at the distant mountains jagged as the teeth of some great beast. That land had fallen into darkness, as the old records said it had once done long ago, when Gondor's old enemies called that place home. Something had returned to the black depths of Mordor, and he knew what that something was even if no-one yet had spoken its name out loud. Rumours were more than loud enough.

Sauron. Laid low by Isildur, before the poison Sauron left behind corrupted him and led to his death. And where there was Sauron there rode his dead servants, those who had taken Minas Tirith's once-beautiful twin city and made it a grave, who had tricked the last King of Gondor to his death. With such terrible and desperate days on the horizon, how could Ecthelion do anything but fear?

His father no longer had the strength to rule. His days were coming to an end. Soon Ecthelion would be Steward in name as well as in truth. That made all of this real and immediate in a way it had not quite been before. And what then would he do to protect his people? The treasury was impoverished, the army weakened, their defences untested and far from the old days of their glory and strength. He knew what some of his advisers would say. The words of that old soothsayer all those years ago had taken root in the minds of many of his people; this half-myth of a powerful lord in the North; Kulkodar who would come to save them in Gondor's hour of need. It was the same old stories about the lost Kings in a new form, and worth about as much. He had sent envoys to find out the truth, and none had ever returned.

No, Mithrandir had convinced him that there was nothing good to these tales of Kulkodar. Indeed in days like these he was grateful for the wizard's council, although neither of them could do much to quash any of the rumours Ecthelion would rather not see spread in the White City. For the past eight or nine years Mithrandir had been a fixture at court, busying himself with some wizardly studies of the great archives of Minas Tirith. Something about the old Kings and the line of Isildur, Ecthelion knew little of the details. He was merely happy that it kept him here where his wisdom was so needed.

"Good morning Lord Ecthelion," Mithrandir greeted him, when he stepped into the Great Hall that day.

"And to you Mithrandir," Ecthelion replied, "although when you come to me so early, I regret it is rarely with good news."

"Well," the wizard said, smiling, "unlike many rulers I have known, you have the wisdom and good manners to actually _listen_ to me." He hesitated a moment, leaning on his staff. "And, perceptive as ever, you are right. I do have news. Orcs are moving in greater numbers in the mountains of Mordor. The Black Gate is manned again, as is Minas Morgul. Tremors have been felt in the earth in Ithilien. I fear Sauron has grasped enough of his old power to reawaken the fires of Mount Doom and begin reconstruction of his fell tower Barad-dûr."

Ecthelion sat down heavily upon the Steward's chair. "Ill news indeed."

"You have already begun work to rebuild the defences of Gondor," Mithrandir told him. "And it will be some while yet before any move is made against _you_. You are not the only enemy Sauron has."

"I can think of few so close and so near to his thoughts."

"There you are wrong," Mithrandir said. "The lands which once fell under his power – Harad, Umbar, Rhûn - have long been free of him, and may not be so eager to bow before a dark lord much reduced in his strength. He will have work to do in persuading or re-conquering them."

Ecthelion had never given much credence to the claims that Mithrandir kept things from him. Of course he would have his own secrets; he was a wizard after all, and as inclined to be cagey and private as any of his ilk. Saruman was proof enough that wizards did not let their words flow freely. But when it came to advice, he had always trusted it. And yet... it was not that it rang false, for he imagined the return of Sauron's rule would be as though some dark mirror of Isildur himself walked into this hall expecting to sit upon the High Throne – as many would be wary of him as a trick as would welcome his coming. Often it was said in his hearing, as though to flatter, that Gondor needed no King. But still he could not imagine Sauron thinking of such once-subjects as his enemies, and the word had such weight in Mithrandir's mouth...

 _Kulkodar_ , the thought flashed across his mind before he dismissed it. No. If Gondor needed no King then it needed no tall tale to save it either. Let Sauron come for them; it would be years down the line if Mithrandir's claims ran true, and in that time Gondor would make itself strong. Through long centuries Gondor had held, against dead Kings and their armies Gondor had held when its sister Arnor crumbled and fell, and now would it hold too, against whatever terrors the future held.

That was his promise to his people.

 _Early Winter 2951_

Gimli son of Glóin was going to see the King. Or rather, his father was, as one of the members of the legendary Company, and Gimli was joining him. It was the ten year anniversary celebration of their victory over the Elves and Erebor becoming dwarvish once again. There had been a massive party all throughout the day, with feasting and drinking and singing and many, many speeches which became less coherent as the hours went on. Although everyone in Erebor had been invited to the main event, even the people of Dale who had technically been on the wrong side a decade ago, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield were having their own party afterwards, in the King and Consort's halls, with all of their families. Gimli had been excited about it ever since he'd been told it was going to happen.

Gimli had at least managed not to spill anything on his clothes during the feast earlier, and he was still too young to be allowed strong dwarvish beer, or even much of the weaker stuff the Men preferred. His mind was therefore clear of anything but anticipation as they climbed the great stair. His father and mother had both been drinking as much as anyone else, but he didn't see any signs of it in them now. They both looked very fine in their ceremonial mail, covered over by jerkins embroidered with thread-of-gold. His father wore gold braid clips marked with the symbol of their house, and his mother had put her hair and beard up in ornate loops studded with beads of turquoise and lapis, bright against her fiery locks. His own clips were silver for his youth, for although he had come of age two years ago, he hadn't yet found his Craft or Calling.

The door to the King's halls had pillars to either side carved with the signs of the house of Durin, and over it were the wings of the Raven, the symbol of the Royal Line of Erebor. Dwalin was there to greet them with a wide grin on his face. He looked very different in casual clothes compared to the last time Gimli had seen him, when he'd been dumping him flat on his back during weapon's training when Gimli moved too slowly to get out to the way of his axes. That was one of the things about your father being a member of the Company – you were trained by the Captain of the King's own Guard himself! If only Dwalin was a little less intimidating...

"Glóin!" Dwalin cried out as he saw them, spreading his arms wide in greeting. "And Mizim, beautiful as ever! And you young Gimli, you clean up well enough when you've brushed the dust out of your beard." He laughed in an affectionate kind of way that made Gimli redden in embarrassment. "Fíli, Kíli and Ori are all here already; they'll be glad of another young one to talk to."

Gimli brightened up at this. The princes were older than him, but not by much, and they were very friendly. His father didn't approve of him spending time with them outside of 'professional areas', meaning training with Dwalin, and any other lessons that they might happen to have together, which weren't many. He wasn't sure if this was because the princes were much more important than his own family, or if Dad didn't approve of their friendship with Erebor's dragons. But either way, Gimli liked them, and they were certainly easier to talk to then his father's friends, a dour lot he was always having over to the house and talking with in the back rooms where Gimli wasn't allowed to go.

Most of the rest of the Company was already there, seated around a large table with a top inlaid with patterns in marble. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur were there, Bombur already laying into a plate of roast beef, cheese and pickled onions with his famous appetite. Kíli had told him that Bombur had once fit twenty boiled eggs into his mouth all at the same time, which Gimli only half believed was the truth. Uncle Óin was sitting intent on a mug of foaming beer, and had to be jostled in the side by Balin before he noticed that they were here. Of course then he stood up and pulled Gimli into a bone-breaking hug.

That over, his uncle directed him to the other young dwarves, who were in the adjoining room. Gimli made his way through to see that Fíli and Ori were engrossed in a game of hnefatafl whilst Kíli looked on offering 'advice'.

"You should move it here," Kíli was saying as he came in. "Look, he's left it wide open."

"That's because it's a trap," Fíli replied, sliding a different soldier piece forward somewhere else.

Kíli considered this a moment whilst Ori grinned at him. "So it is," he admitted, then looked up to see Gimli watching them. He smiled brilliantly. "Look who made it! I thought you might be snoring under a table somewhere by now."

"Aye, perhaps I would be if _a'dad_ allowed me to drink anything stronger than boiled water!" Gimli replied.

"I do like a nice cup of tea," Ori said, still mostly concentrating on the board.

"A cup of tea is not what a good party needs," Gimli said. "It needs ale! _Dwarves_ need ale!" He hadn't realised he felt so strongly about it until he had started talking.

"No need to tell us," Fíli said with a sigh. "Do we look like people who've been drinking all afternoon? No, because Thorin made us promise not to 'act in a way inappropriate for the House of Durin'."

"No fun, this responsibility business," Kíli added. "Sitting up there at the High Table looking all serious and royal."

"But that part of it's all over isn't it?" Gimli pointed out. "You don't have to do that any more."

A wide grin started to spread over the brother's faces. "Well done that dwarf," Kíli said. "That's a very good point. And I _do_ know where Uncle keeps his drink."

"Are you sure he won't mind?" Ori asked nervously.

"Of course not," Fíli told him, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Not when it's us at least!"

It was a decision easily made after that. Kíli rummaged in a set of storage cupboards skilfully concealed inside the walls and produced several clear glass bottle full of golden liquid. "The Dale-folk distil it from barley," he told them. "Fire-water they call it, from the colour and the taste. Just the thing for a band of dragon-friends."

Gimli said nothing to that, but a little of his thoughts must have shown on his face because Fíli said, "Well, and you're from a Firebeard line, so of course it's appropriate for you as well."

"True enough," Gimli replied, and accepted the bottle eagerly enough as they passed it around.

Some time later, although through the warmth suffusing his blood it was hard to tell how long it had been, Gimli found himself desperately needing to answer a call of nature. He disentangled himself from the pile currently leaning against one of the couches, which arose from the floor as one block of stone and had been carved out when the room itself was made. Kíli, who had been rambling at some length about some mischief or other he had been up to with Ancalagon and Calarus (the black and the copper dragons, Gimli remembered), raised his voice in momentary protest at the sudden lack of warmth at his side, but went back to his story quickly enough after dragging some cushions off the couch to replace him.

After taking advantage of the convenience of dwarvish plumbing, Gimli was just on his way back to rejoin the others when he noticed his father leaving the main hall. Gimli stopped, concealed at the junction, waiting to see where he was going. There was a strange furtiveness about his movements that seemed odd. Glóin turned down the passage that led away from Gimli, towards the King and Consort's rooms. Curious, Gimli followed, hanging back. In the soft leather of his party boots his footsteps were surprisingly quiet. Certainly his father had no idea he was there.

Glóin bypassed what turned out on Gimli's passing to be Thorin's sleeping chambers, and turned a corner to another room where he slipped inside. Gimli went up to the doorway and peered through the crack that his father had left between door and frame. It was a large room with walls polished to the sheer shine of the public areas, although private rooms were often left dull or rougher depending on a dwarf's personal taste. At first Gimli thought the lines of gold worked throughout the room were just the traceries of natural seams, but a closer look revealed patterns. Maps. This was Erebor; every hall and corridor, every mine and smithy, and considering whereabouts this was, probably a great deal of secret ways besides. Everyone knew that there were hidden ways in the mountain; the side-door was only one example.

Those didn't seem to be the only maps in the place either. There were great sheets of parchment, vellum and paper laid out on the central table. His father had gone over to them and was going through them, scanning their contents with a speed that suggested he was looking for something in particular. Gimli hesitated. He wasn't sure he should be watching this. He was _certainly_ sure his father shouldn't be doing whatever this was. He glanced away up and down the corridor, but they were empty and utterly silent. When he looked back, his father was tucking something into his jerkin.

Gimli took a quick step back, then began to steal away as quietly as he could. He didn't want his father to catch him; that was bound to be trouble, and he had to think about this first. About what his father might have wanted and why. His head was whirling with confusion, although some of that might have been the drink.

Something was going on in Erebor, and he wanted to know what.

It was astonishing how much silver could be forced to fit inside a small hammered band. The first time, with iron, Thorin had not quite understood the strange alchemy of the craft, and so the resulting piece had been thin as thread and refused entirely to change size in any way. Now though, after much practise, he felt he had begun to achieve something better than apprentice-work. The runes he had inscribed on the bars of silver shimmered in the heat, unbroken despite the blows of his hammer that compacted and bonded the segments together. Their light seemed to pulse in time with his voice as he sung the words Bilbo's Ring had taught him.

The songs of spells fitted his throat better than he would have anticipated. Dwarves had never had much truck with the magic of Elves or Men. Mahal had given them the secrets of runes, in the time before the Awakening, and that had been more than enough for his people. But he liked the way this magic echoed around the forge, the way it thrummed in his bones, vibrated in his chest.

"More heat?" the dragonet asked him.

Thorin nodded, stepping back. Sweat beaded on his skin, dripping from his brow as fire bloomed in front of him. Another thing about crafting rings; they needed a forge imbued with magic. The Elves no doubt had had their ways, and the sorcerer, Mairon or Sauron or whatever he called himself, had used the fires of the very earth itself. Here, he had the dragons. Each one heated the materials for their own rings, as Thorin had been assured this would let them make better use of them.

Tighter and tighter the silver packed itself, driven by hammer and song. He could feel it, like some unnatural weight, like the thickness of air in a deep mine. It drew his strength out of him, but he had much strength to give it.

Gradually, he brought the Ring to life.

 _Spring 2952_

Akhôrahil did not believe he could be said to enjoy things as a general rule, but he did feel a certain sense of pleasure in being in Umbar. The culture here had changed little in the past millennia; they held on fast to the memory of ancient Númenór, their ancestors who had conquered these shores in ages long past. Things looked as he remembered them from the days of his own rule. Zawiyet el-Meitin, city upon the bay, lay spread out before him, white and cream, sandstone and limestone shining in the sun. Upon the waters boats of many kinds moved, square sailed or lateen sailed, some with oars, some with nets over the sides, some with prows painted with eyes in red or blue or black. At mid-day the temple fires could little be seen, but at night they would glow like red stars.

"My lord," a voice said behind him. He turned. Semerkhet, one of the courtiers he had seen about the palace, stood holding aside the curtain-door of the room, looking nervous. Not nervous merely because it was a Nazgûl he spoke to; Akhôrahil knew the taste of the fear he caused well enough. This was a fear for another reason. Akhôrahil beckoned the young man to enter.

"Dread lord," Semerkhet said. Hesitated. "What I must say should not be overheard," he whispered.

Akhôrahil raised a hand. A spell of silence was a simple enough one. "Speak," he said. "It shall pass unnoticed."

"I was at the court of King Ar-Azruzagar this morning. He had called the envoy of the Eye there – he has made his decision, and not in your favour my lord."

Akhôrahil's line of thought stopped momentarily in his shock. He had not thought it would go this way. The Black Númenoreans had never been the most loyal servants of Mairon even when he last ruled, for their pride was great. Even now there was a great monument of solid gold in one of the squares near the palace in the likeness of Ar-Pharazôn triumphing over Mairon in the last days of old Númenór, albeit one tainted with the knowledge that it was that very prisoner whose cunning words had led to its eventual downfall.

But for all that, and all the promises he himself had made to Ar-Azruzagar, it seemed more recent history was preying on the King's mind. Gondor. It all came down to Gondor, a weakened but still powerful giant to the north, a conqueror who had claimed ownership of Umbar and parts of Harad since almost two thousand years ago, when their armies had come south under the banner of King Hyarmendacil I. Those wars had continued ever since in one form or another.

"When does the King intend to move against Gondor?" Akhôrahil asked.

"You are wise to see my King's reasoning, lord. I am afraid I do not know," Semerkhet replied apologetically. "That much was not agreed this morning. But it must be soon I am sure. The messenger of the Eye promised support in the endeavour, in return for our support later on against your faction, dread lord."

"Yet you come to me with warnings," Akhôrahil noted.

Semerkhet hesitated. "I read," he said. "History shows us that the Eye is not reliable, and is loath to keep its promises. I would rather we are not caught up in its plots again, although I suppose it is unavoidable."

"How long before the sorcerers come?" Akhôrahil asked.

"A few hours yet," the boy replied. "When Ar-Azruzagar summoned them the Grand Master said they would need time to prepare – they are afraid of you lord, and your strength."

"Then I shall save them the trouble of testing it," Akhôrahil replied. "It is clear I can do no more good here. Not at this time."

But there were other places that might be more susceptible to persuasion. Harad had many Kings, and all it took was one causing Mairon trouble to set things a little back in their favour.

 _Summer 2952_

All of Dale and Laketown had turned out for the funeral, which was more than the old bastard deserved. He had never ceased being a thorn in Bard's side, and even in death it seemed the Master was still causing problems. Bard had never asked to be anyone of importance. His ancestors might have been Kings, but he had never much cared for the idea although he had never managed to persuade the Master of that. And then he had been sent to see a dragon, and somehow that had impressed Erebor enough that he had been chosen to oversee the rebuilding of Dale – although more likely the Master was hoping he would annoy the Kings under the Mountain enough that they would have him killed. Bard had expected that he would make a great mess of things, but organisation seemed to come naturally to him. People seemed to find him likeable in a way they hadn't before. It probably helped that he didn't stink of fish all the time as he once had. And anyone who showed him too much favour in the past would have had the Master's wrath to cope with.

But that same likeability was now the cause of a new and particularly unpleasant problem. They wanted to make him King. It had first begun as rumours amongst the common folk in the last days of the Master's final illness, words that he had heard before if never so loud or so openly spoken. His lineage seemed to impress people, although it oughtn't. Bard was not his fore-father, and put little stock in blood as a measure of a man's worth. Better to judge by deeds, and his were of no particular greatness or grandeur. Then the Master had declined further, slipping into the last days of his ilness, and the words began to be spoken by more important people, people with money and influence.

The lands that had once fallen under the banner of the Kings of Dale had long since been carved up by those barons who had owned them when the dragon first came. When the city burned, they had been free to make their own way in life, setting themselves up as independent lords of their own domains, with no need to bow to laws or pay taxes to a greater authority. As the years went by, Bard knew, those families had only consolidated their rule as Laketown built itself alone and began to claw back some kind of livelihood from those trade caravans that had not yet heard that there was no longer a Dale to trade with. It had never been easy even despite their advantageous position, but things had, perhaps, gradually been getting better even before the past few years. If nothing else, at least the Masters had always been chosen for their good heads for money, Bard reflected.

The barons though, they liked wealth as much as any, and whilst they had been content to use Laketown as a kind of independent market where the merchants of each domain's master would at least pay no duties to any other lord, when the Mountain opened, they had come to take a greater interest. Bard had cared little, so long as none interfered with the restoration efforts that were his charge. Now he thought perhaps that laxness had given them the wrong idea about him. He held few illusions about why barons would chose _him_ as their lord, rather than one of their own number.

They were watching him even now, from pride of place by the Long Lake docks, in seating build for the purpose, as Bard accompanied the City Guard bringing the funeral carriage down to the boat which had been laid out for the Master's final journey. Like as not some of the talk going on amongst them was how best to approach him now.

But, Bard realised, they were not the only eyes upon him. It was an uneasy feeling that made him turn looking, made the more so when he saw the three figures in their own open circle of space and silence. Two tall and clad in black, fell as death, the other shifting as smoke with eyes of fire. Kulkodar and his Nazgûl.

Erebor had sent a dwarvish delegation down already, led by Lord Balin the Steward, but no mention had been made that one of the two Mountain Kings would be coming for this. Fire and Stone they called them, admiring the dwarf-king's strength of heart and will, and his ability to stand against – no, to _care for_ – such a fearsome creature as the one who commanded dragons. A decade might have passed, but none had forgotten the battle at Erebor's foot where the very ground shuddered and moved at that dark lord's command. Bard had not been the only Man there, nor the only to come back alive., and that kind of tale was long-lived

Still, he could not wonder now what purpose they might have in being here. The procession had come to the water's edge, and a quartet of bier-bearers lifted the Master's shrouded body from the carriage up onto their shoulders. They brought him out along the pier and laid him down in the barge, his belongings piled around him. He had no family that they might go to. Retreating, the men loosed the ropes tying the barge, and two small row-boats began to drag it out over the waters. When they too had done their job, they cast loose their own ropes and moved away, leaving Bard to step forward and do his part.

The arrows he had already prepared, although he would not need more than one. He nocked one to his longbow, and dipped its end in the brazier in front of him. The pitch-soaked rags coating its head bloomed into flame. He raised the bow, sighted, and let fly.

Afterwards, as the crowds began to depart, Bard expected the barons to find him, but someone else got to him first. Gazing at the dead men at Kulkodar's back, he wondered if he might have preferred the nobles. There was always this unnatural fear when the Nazgûl were about, not something that came from yourself but from outside. Some kind of aura they carried around them that you simply couldn't fight against. Bard had never been one to bow to fear though. It seemed to rather harden something in him, make him both stronger, but also more merciless. He didn't like the sensation of what he thought he might become when truly afraid.

"I'd offer condolences," Kulkodar said, "but I think that would be more insulting than comforting given the circumstances."

"I thank you all the same," Bard replied warily. He did not yet know what this was about, and disliked the not-knowing.

"I hear in fact that congratulations would be more in order."

It was never precisely easy to meet the eyes of the King of Fire, given that his form never seemed to be settled but constantly shrouded in shadow so that not even his height could be made out, but in his irritation Bard made a good try of it. "Nothing I want anything to do with," he said.

"Really?" the creature seemed amused.

"You were never the Master's puppet," the dead man that Bard thought might be the one called Khamûl said, in a voice that made his skin prickle. "They have taken notice of you only as much as they thought they needed to. They are being fools. Take advantage of that foolishness."

"And what do I want with any of this?" Bard asked with scorn, gesturing to the three of them and indicating thereby the whole concept of ruling. "I am a glorified quartermaster, and before that a bargeman."

"You aren't concerned what might become of Dale if one of them was to rule it?" Kulkodar asked him.

"Enquiries have been made," the other dead man said. "Not men much given to kindness, or justice, it is said."

"They're my people yes, but not mine to rule." He had the sense that somehow he was losing an argument that never should have touched his resolve.

"Poor and miserable and suffering they will become," said the second Nazgûl. "As you were once."

"And what of your family if you refuse them?" said the first. He said this in a way that sounded... like silk. Like oil. Fine and rich but something sickly about it. "Your son is a fine man now, yet he looks to you to stoke his ambition and you have none."

"Your eldest daughter dreams of running away with elves, spending her days sleeping in trees, leaping through branches under starry skies at night," the second again. "Your youngest believes herself unworthy of happiness, for do you not believe the same of yourself?"

"You know nothing of any of this!" Bard said, with real fear now and sharp anger. Kulkodar's eyes seemed to burn him like brands for all that he did not speak. "You do not know me and you do not know my family!"

"But these nobles know them," said Khamûl. "Where you live, where you sleep. If you are not their pawn, so they say amongst themselves, then you are a threat for what you could be, and as you are you have no strength to protect those you love."

"So you say what? Bow to them or not? You contradict yourselves!" It was an odd thing that no-one was looking at them, a strange sight though they must make, and Bard half-shouting at them. But that was magic; little to be trusted, and ever playing tricks.

"Bow at first. Bow and gain strength, then turn when they are weak and you are strong," said Khamûl. "You shall be King of Dale, Bard the Bowman, and we prefer you whom we know to a lesser noble of little character."

"I will promise nothing to you," Bard said, but he could already feel himself wavering. He had never sought out power, but nor had he done anything to make the Master fear him less, and he had gone to his post here in Dale willingly enough. "Though I imagine things will turn out the way you want them in the end."

"I look forward to your coronation," said Kulkodar, as warm as though his dead guards had not just been throwing threats every which way. "Good luck, Bard."

The boy was troubling him again. Tarben was not a man given to introspection and few things gave him cause for concern, but the boy was one of them. He had seen many things in his time, many of them unpleasant. Strider would not be the first child he had seen wield a blade, kill with it. It was never a happy sight and it spoke ill of the past he would not speak of, but such things happened in the world and Tarben had no illusions about his own ability to change it. And it was better, all things considered he thought, that he had given the boy this job where at least someone could keep an eye on him, else he would like as not be off wandering the countryside until something even more unpleasant happened to him.

Even as good with that sword as he was, unpleasant things were sometimes unavoidable.

Still, it was that skill which made up part of what bothered him. Tarben's father had been part of a mercenary company – and there was plenty of work for such as they in lands far to the south – until he had met his mother and settled down in Rohan, and he had taught Tarben from the time he could first hold a stick in his pudgy little hand. He knew he was good at what he did, which was why he charged so much for the services of himself and his men on the Edoras to Ered Luin route. But the boy Strider... the sword was in his blood, to fight like that. Practise alone couldn't do it, although Tarben had no doubt he would have been diligent in that too. Some were natural masons, natural carpenters, natural weavers, natural bards. This boy was a natural warrior, and he had come to it far earlier than he ever should.

The path that lay before a boy such as that could not be a good one, in Tarben's mind. Strider would not be satisfied staying here forever, killing bandits and Dunlendings. They might have been more active in recent months, but that danger was settling down again to the levels it had generally always been at. The boldness of lawless folk waxed and waned, but for the most part the job of caravan-guard involved a great deal more walking and waiting than it did fighting, and that would not satisfy him.

Tarben was roused from his thoughts by the sound of hooves from the road ahead. Two figures on horseback came aound a turn in the track at a light trot. They wore green cloaks with the hoods up, and they were armed with sword and bow. Their mounts were nothing ordinary either, sleek muscles sliding with restrained power under the gleaming hides. Despite the dust underfoot, it seemed none of it was inclined to stick to them.

The two slowed, then stopped. One dismounted, and waited as the caravan approached. Tarben strode out to meet them, curious.

"A good day to you," one of the strangers said, in a surprisingly muscial voice. He put a hand over his heart and bowed slightly.

"And to you sir," Tarben replied.

"I wonder if perhaps you could help us," the stranger continued. Tarben could see little of him beneath his concealing hood, save sharp eyes in a sharp-boned face, clean-shaven. "You see, we are looking for someone – our little brother, to be precise."

Tarben looked them up and down. If he had been in Rohan he'd have said they were Jarls, or of those families. As it was the wild lands between Rohan and Ered Luin had no nobles or rich folk of any kind. They barely supported those farming families, villages and little towns that did manage to scrape a living there. Whoever they were, these two must be very far from home. "A terrible thing to loose your kin in lands like these," he said. "What happened?"

"He had bold ideas about seeing the world," the stranger said. "He ran off, I am sorry to say. But we have no doubt he is out here somewhere."

There was a confidence in his words that stopped Tarben from pointing out how unlikely it was that their younger brother was still alive let alone in any position to be found. It would be an extraordinary child indeed who managed to... A thought crossed his mind.

"How old did you say your brother was?"

"He has the look of a boy of fourteen or fifteen," the man said, his eyes suddenly hungry. "Have you seen such a child then?"

Tarben did not trust either of these strangers. Strider hadn't told him anything of his past, but no-one ran away for any _good_ they truly were Strider's family, then what exactly would he be sending the boy back to if he told the truth?

"I haven't as yet," he told the pair. "But if I do, where might I find you to let you know?"

"There's an inn in Eharbad called the Broken Sword. Leave a message there for a lady called Gilraen, and we will be indebted to you." The man leapt back onto his horse with uncanny grace, nodded a goodbye, and set off again with his companion following close behind.

Tarben rejoined the caravan with a pervasive sense of unease. His eyes searched out Strider, and eventually found him emerging from beneath one of the carts. He'd been right – he was the one those men had been searching for. Strider saw him watching and gave him a brief smile of thanks. Yet there was still a nervous tension in his body that made Tarben think he wasn't going to be staying with them much longer.

Sure enough, when the caravan stopped that night, Strider was no-where to be found.


End file.
